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~ JAN 1'7 1929 


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SAY, DAD! 


i) 
pee’ 


ae ae 
eight 





at ae a 


By DAD! 


a ee iid Fs, —. 
QM C3 et f 
fra Wa > tag 

TONS 


CHUMMY TALKS BETWEEN 
FATHER AND SON 





By // 
WALLACE DUNBAR VINCENT 


Introduction by 
GEORGE J. FISHER, M.D. 


NEw Yor«k CHICAGO 
Fleming H. Revell Company 


LONDON AND EDINBURGH 


Copyright, McMxxvI, by 
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 


New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. 
London: 21 Paternoster Square 
Edinburgh: 99 George Street 


Admiringly Dedicated 
to Every Boy 
WHO WANTS TO KNOW 





INTRODUCTION 


TAKE great delight in commending this book to 
all Dads and to all sons. 
It is a series of friendly chats between a father 
and a son on themes important to a boy. | 

Of course we will acknowledge at the outset that the 
father is an exceptional father and that the son is an 
exceptional son. That, however, does not alter the 
value of the conversations but really elevates them. 

They contain in them very valuable suggestions to a 
father on the one hand, and to a son on the other as to 
how happy their relations may be. 

They suggest a basis for a come-together. They in- 
spire confidence. They will tend toward lengthening 
the association between a father and his son which 
modern civilization tends to shorten. 

These chats are excellent because they are so 
friendly, so unstinted, and so open. There is no sug- 
gestion of stiff reserve, nor of cant. There is a fine 
naturalness that is refreshing. They are not preachy 
or pontifical. 

The conversations cover a wide series of themes and 
they are exceedingly ingenious in the way Dad brings 
in ethics; slips in some personal hygiene; cleverly gives 
some training in good speech, and artfully discusses 
good manners and fair play. 

7 


8 INTRODUCTION 


They are also good studies in personality and in how 
to get along with people. | 

Through all the chats there is a wholesome wit and 
humor and attractive illustration. | 

The book suggests the ideal way of imparting 
helpful instruction and information and of imposing 
discipline. 

The instruction is not superimposed by Dad; it i is 
self-imposed by the son, and that is ideal. There are 
no arbitrary impositions by father; they reason it out 
together, the boy taking the lead in applying the truth. 

This is an excellent and commendable contribution 
to the growing literature on the relations of a father 
to his son. It will be valuable not only to fathers 
and sons, but to teachers and workers with boys 
everywhere. 


GrorcE J. FisHer, M.D. 
New York City. 


Dear Boy Reader: 

This is your book. I wrote it for you and all the 
other wide-awake fellows who question everything in 
life, and who certainly deserve better answers than, 
“I’m busy! ” and “‘ Don’t bother me! ” 

I hope you'll get some help out of it, and a whole 
lot of fun. But, of course, you’re wondering about a 
host of things that this little book doesn’t even 
mention. 

So, suppose you write to me, in care of the Fleming 
H. Revell Company, 158 Fifth Avenue, New York 
City, and see if I can’t help you out? 

Really, you’ll be helping me to write the next book, 
you see; so be sure to ask about something that will 
interest the thousands of other boys who will each 
own a copy. 

Your sincere friend, 
WALLACE DUNBAR VINCENT. 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 


The author acknowledges the courteous permission of 
The Target, The Haversack, Association Men and 
Brooklyn Central to re-issue in book form some of the 
material of this book, which first appeared in these 
publications. 


10 


WHAT STARTED THESE TALKS 


| ' ' Y HEN you were a boy, Dad, did you wonder 
about things? ” 
“What kind of things, Dick? ” 

“Oh, all kinds. For instance, where you came from; 
how to get the most out of life; why so many things 
you wanted to do were called wrong; how to keep from 
acting like a boob when you felt all hands and feet and 
knees; how to write a letter when you hadn’t a thing 
to say?” 

“T’ll say I did! And, what was the sense in trying to 
learn Latin; and who invented baseball; and why most 
grown-ups were so dull; and why iron ships floated, 
while flat-irons sank; and why, when every paper and 
magazine discussed the problems of girls, none tried to 
answer the thousands of questions that tormented a 
wide-awake boy every hour of the day.” 

“Gee, Dad, you do understand! Well, what did you 
do about it? ” 

** Sometimes I asked my elders, and was told to ‘ run 
along’; that they were very busy, or that I was a queer 
boy, and would understand when I was older. Usually 
I just kept on wondering. Some of the answers are 
just coming along at this late day. So, Dick, as we 
find ourselves in the same boat, suppose you and I row 
along together.” 


11 





OMNIA wWHY 


25. 
26. 


CONTENTS 


I 
PLAY-TIME 


. Turee New GAMES. 
. Fun witH LETTERS. 


A New Worp-GAmE 


. ANOTHER WorpD-GAME . 


How To Puay Kines Dopce . 


. Numbers Rovunp 1s Fun 

. More or Dan’s Puzzures 

. An Oup-Timge GaMbs or INDIA 
. WINNING AND LosING 


II 
SCHOOLDAYS 


. A CoMPosiITION TO Writs 

. Wuy Do Wh Strupy? 

. TAKING Worps APART 

. Do You Know You Know? 

. Do You Speak Encuise? 

. Quick NotTse-TaxkInG 

. Are Puns Auu Rigut? . 

. Havine Fun wit Ficurss . 

. How Mucu Do You Sz? . 

. THost Memory Systems 

. SPEAKING IN PUBLIC 

. SOME QuEER Cat TALES. 

. Arg Lions Cowarps? Leute 
. WHat Doss Ficutine Prove? . 
. WHat Azsout SLANG? 


III 


ABOUT THE HOUSE 


GeTTiInc Up In THE Morning . 
BATHS AND Swims . 


13 


17 
20 
23 
26 
29 
32 
35 
38 
41 


47 
50 
53 
55 
58 
61 
64 
67 
70 
73 
76 
79 
82 
85 
88 


95 
98 


CONTENTS 


. Maxine tHe Harr BEHAVE . 

. SHOES AND STOCKINGS 

. TRAINING AN UNSEEN SLAVE 

. GoING TO THE DENTIST’S 

. ANSWERING THAT LETTER 

. WHat Goop 1s A Diary? 

. Meetine STRANGERS 

. Wreexk-ENpD VISITING : 

. THE ART OF QUIZZING Quizzes 
. Arrrer ALL, PoLITENESS Pays 

: ounce: AND OLDSTERS . 

. “SHowine Orr” ror CoMPANY 
. Fryvine A Hopspy to Rive ; 
. SOMETHING TO MAKE For MoTHER . 
. CHoosine Your “ TRADE-Marxk ” 


IV 
GROWING UP 


. Don’t BECOME A BOASTER 

. WHEN You Fret INVENTIVE : 
. A MAN Cauuep “ Frxep Mr. WIx” . 
. A QurER KIND or Frar . 

. Do Tuery LIke To BE Sick? . 

. As We Loox To OTHERS 

. WHAT Is Reau Courtesy? .. 
. Is Seur-Esteem A Goop THING? 
. Tuer TRUE VALUE or FAME . 

. THat Big Worp “ Optimism ” 

. Dick Has A QuEER DREAM . 

. FAILURE AND SUCCESS 

. Tue Very Lirtie SIns . 

. STORING Up MEMORIES . 

. We Attu Are IDEALISTS . 

. SPIRITUAL THINKING 

. TAKING THE WortpD “ As Is ig 

. Don’t Bz “ Onty a Boy ” 

. SMILING THROUGH LIFE 


I 
PLAY-TIME 


MY DAD 


Some fellows say that when they want 
To know the how and why 

Of things in life, and ask their folks, 
They only give a sigh, 

And say, “ More questions? Goodness me, 
I can’t be bothered now,— 

Besides, you wouldn’t understand 
At your age, anyhow.” 


But P’'m in luck! [ve got a Dad 
Who can’t forget when he 
Was liable to busticate 
With questions—just like me; 
And so, no matter what he’s at, 
He’s glad to lay it down, 
And listen with his quiet smile 
And never wear a frown. 


I ask him—oh, just ev’rything, — 
For some new game to play, 

A composition subject, how 
To act when I’m away, 

What I can make for Mother, and 
If slang is really bad— 

So, if youre stuck for answers, just 
Ask me and I'll ask Dad! 


I 
THREE NEW GAMES 


% OW I am in a fine fix! ” 

| \ “ Glad it’s a fine one, Dick.” 

“No fooling! Here’s a letter from the sec- 
retary of our Good Fun Club, saying there’s to be 
a meeting next Saturday night. Then he goes on, 
‘You're to be Master of Ceremonies, old sport, and 
we're depending upon you to come with a noddle full 
of spiffy ideas! Don’t think you can spring the same 
- old games on us and get away with it. We’re sick of 
all the charade stuff, and pinning tails on a donkey’s 
left ear no longer thrill us.” 

“That should be ‘ thrills.’ ” 

“I suppose so; but that isn’t what troubles me, 
Dad,—it’s the job I’m saddled with! I don’t know 
any new games.” 

“Why not start the fellows off with a Zoo spelling 
bee? ” 

“Say, Dad,—you’re going to save my life! ” 

‘Line them up in the usual way and explain that 
the name of a certain animal must be substituted for 
each of the vowels in any word. Give them five min- 
utes to memorize the following list: 


“For A say Alligator, 
For E say Elephant, 
For I say Iguana (a lizard), 
For O say Orang Outang, 


17 


18 SAY, DAD! 


For U say Unaw’ (the two-toed sloth, pro- 
nounced U-no). 


“Then give out one word after another, as in any 
spelling bee, making those who fail go to the foot of 
the line.” 

“Tve got it down, but I don’t quite see—”’ 

“ Let’s try it. Spell alphabet. (Look on your list.)” 

“* Er—Alligator — L—-P—H—Alligator —- er—B— 
Elephant—T. Gee! Try me with another, Dad.” 

“¢ Spell Connecticut.” 

“‘ C—er—Orang Outang—N—N—er—Alli—I mean 
Elephant—oh, where am I? C—” | 

“Consider yourself at the foot, Dick! Spell 
Doubting.”’ 

“‘ D—Orang Outang — Unau — B — T — Iguana— 
N—G.” 

“Good! Will that do for one game? ” 

“ Tt’ll be a scream, Dad. We'll give the winner a roll 
of adhesive tape, so he can bandage up his aching jaw! 
Now, if you can tell me of one more good one, I’m sure 
I can make the evening a wow.” 

‘“‘Do you suppose your crowd ever heard of Guff 
Golf? ” 

“T should say not! Can we play it indoors? ” 

‘“¢ Anywhere at all. On a large parlour rug is best. 
To make your putter—for that’s the only club you’ll 
need—get a rib from an old umbrella, or some other 
piece of heavy wire about two feet long, and bend it a 
little in the middle. About what will be the lower end 
of it wind strips of cloth, or rags, and stretch over them 
a lot of rubber bands, till there’s a lumpy head for 
your club.” 

“You can’t get a firm grip on a thing like that, Dad; 


THREE NEW GAMES 19 


and the bend in the middle will make it turn in your 
hands every time.” 

‘Exactly what we are aiming at, Dick. In Guff 
Golf everything is planned to make the play uncertain.” 

““T’m on! I can see fun ahead! What next? ” 

“ For the ball get a big cork—one that’s much larger 
around at one end than the other. Of course, this will 
never roll straight, no matter how you hit it. Now, at 
one end of the rug mark a four-inch circle with chalk. 
Start your players, one by one, at the other end, and let 
them see in how few strokes they can hole out.” ; 

“ Bully, Dad! JIL bet you invented Guff Golf 
yourself.”’ 

“Maybe I did, Dick; but there’s no patent on it. 
They played it at your cousin Rosalie’s last birthday 
party, and the whole room was in hysterics. The fun- 
niest thing to me was the expression on the face of a 
person confident of making a twelve-inch putt, when 
he discovered the ‘ball’ behind him instead of in 
the ‘ hole’! ” 

“T’m going to make that putter this minute. We 
won’t need another game for the whole evening.” 

‘Oh, yes, you will. Divide the boys into pairs and 
give each couple a string six feet long. At each end of 
each string tie a pitted date, in the middle a fig, and in 
between three raisins. With their hands clasped behind 
their backs, and the dates in their mouths, each two 
boys must gobble up the string, eating the fruit as they 
reach it. Of course, those who get the figs are the 
winners. It’s funnier than it sounds.” 

“Thanks, Dad,—now I’m sure of being some Mas- 
ter of Ceremonies! I didn’t read you the last line of 
that letter—‘If you’re stuck, Dick, just ask your 
Dad—he knows!’ ” 


II 
FUN WITH LETTERS 


He OW can I amuse a sick boy, Dad? ” 

H ‘Just how sick is he, Dick? ” 

“It’s Jimmy Mason, and he’s in bed with 
a broken leg.” 

“Then he can sit up? ” 

‘“‘ Oh, yes; he reads and writes and draws, and plays 
checkers and all that. I’m going to stay with him for 
an hour or so tonight, while his mother goes some- 
where, and I thought you might tell me of something 
we could play that would be a change for him. We 
won’t care how simple it is, so long as it’s different— 
you know.” 

“Try Alphabet Race. Each having a pad and pen- 
cil, see who can go the farthest along the alphabet, in 
writing a little story in which the first word begins with 
A, the second with B, and so on. Unless you’re pretty 
clever, you’ll be stumped before you’re halfway to Z.” 

‘That sounds promising, Dad. Wait till I get some 
paper—now! A Bad Cat Drank Eighty-Five Gallons 
—may I put Hof Ink, Dad? ” 

“You may not! Cockney English doesn’t go in 
this game.” 

“Then I’m stuck at H.” 

“Very poor, indeed. Try again.” 

““A Baby Called Donald Edward Franklin Gray, 
Having In Jumping Kettles Lamed Many—er—what 
could he lame beginning with N, Id like to know? ” 


20 


FUN WITH LETTERS 21 


“‘T guess N is your fatal hurdle, Dick. But that’s 
very good—you’re halfway to Z, after all. Try once 
more.” 

“A Boy Called David Edgar Francis Goofus, Hav- 
ing Injured Jimmy Koster’s Lame Mother’s New Open 
Piano—er—Quit Rocking So—So—” 

“ Terrifically.” 

“So Terrifically Under—Under—”’ 

“ Various.” 

“Under Various Wonderful— Say, Dad, I don’t 
know any words beginning with X; how do you get 
by that? ” 

“T’ve just found one that will prolong the race— 
Xanthic, meaning ‘ having a yellow colour.’ ” 

“Whew! Under Various Wonderful Xanthic—er— 
Yelping—er—Zithers! ” 

“Bravo! But when you race with your friend, it 
won’t be fair to use any of those words, of course, as he 
will be new at the game. And try to put more sense in 
your sentence. After you’ve strained your intellects in 
that way, see what you can make of the letters of your 
own names.” 

“ Like, Dick Is Certainly Keen—” 

“Hold up! Wait till you’re with Jimmy, and start 
together. Some very interesting sentences can be made 
from the names of great men. Once when I was ill, I 
made quite a lot of them. For instance, ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN began—A Brave, Righteous And Holy 
American Martyr. See what you boys can do with the 
last name. Then take up GEORGE WASHINGTON, 
and bring me your results.” 

“‘T never knew that letters could be such fun.” 

“Memory brings back something else you can try 
out. A boy in my class named Foster Busby discov- 


22 SAY, DAD! 


ered that some of our names held delightful insults— 
spelling by sound being allowed. He took Frank’s full 
name, and brought out ‘ frade cat,’ like this: 


FRAnk DECker ATwood. 


“That made Frank mad, because they were always 
making fun of him for being timid. Then Foster— 
who, by the way, was a roly-poly little imp—worked 
over Meers’ name till this was produced: 


eGbert UIMer MEeRs, 


which referred to the time when he was kept in for 
chewing gum in class. A few mornings after, Sim Lacy 
was enraged to find in large letters on the blackboard: 


SImeon Lane LacY. 


‘Now, Sim had too good an opinion of himself to 
stand being labelled ‘ silly’ and let it go at that; so he 
set to work to fight the fresh fat boy with his own 
weapon. That he succeeded to his and our satis- 
faction you may be sure, when I tell you that the 
following Monday morning the blackboard bore this 
inscription in letters a foot high: 


Foster bATTerman bUsBy! 


And you may be certain, as long as he stayed in the 
school our tormentor was known as Fat Tub.” 

“Gee, Dad, just to thnk—if Jimmy hadn’t broken 
his leg we might never have had this fun ahead of us! ” 


Il 


A NEW WORD-GAME 


iS O you suppose you could think up another 
game for us fellows, Dad—a word-game, or 


something? That last one made a big hit, 
I can tell you! ” 

“Now, see here, young man—do you realize that 
almost every week you’re at your poor father for a 
new game? ”’ 

“Well, you see, Dad, the boys are always saying, 
‘Say, Dick, get your guv’nor to show you something 
new to play.’ I tell ’em I guess you don’t know any 
more games. ‘Goon!’ they shout. ‘He can turn ’em 
out like flivvers, one every two minutes—and they’re 
always easy to learn and piles of fun. Have another 
by tomorrow night, sure! ’” 

“‘ Of course, if you’ve built up such a wondrous repu- 
tation for me, Dick, I’ll have to try to live up to it. I 
never thought of rivalling Mr. Ford, even as a manu- 
facturer of mental joy-rides. But I did concoct a sim- 
ple little game the other day, and I named it Bomo.” 

“ What’s it mean, Dad? Sounds like a metal polish.” 

“It’s from the French words, beaucoup (many) and 
mots (words). Bring me the small box on my desk. 
There—on each of these squares of cardboard you will 
find a letter. They run from A to Z, and there are four 
of each letter. That is, I’ve cut up four alphabets, and 
there are to be four-players. We'll turn all the little 
cards face-down, and leave them mixed up in the cen- 


23 


24 SAY, DAD! 


tre of the table—so. Now you sit opposite me, and 
we'll make believe there’s another player between us 
on either side.” 

‘ All set, Dad—let her go! ” 

“You draw a card and place it face-up before you. 
The dummy on your left draws one and does the same 
with it. I draw mine, and now the other dummy takes 
his. Now it’s your turn again. Your first letter was 
an R, and now you’ve drawn a K. You can’t make 
a word from those two, so the next man draws. He 
happens to have an S and an A, so he makes the word, 
AS. That gives him another turn, and he draws a B.” 

“ Tf he’d drawn an H, Dad, could he have made HAS 
and still had another turn? ” 

“Exactly. Now I draw an O. Having already a 
P anda T, I can make POT or TOP—it doesn’t matter 
which. Tl call it POT. I draw again and get an L. 
Now I make PLOT, and draw again. An X. No good. 
See how it goes? ” 

“Sure I do! But, listen, Dad. Suppose someone 
had the letters to make ALL and SO. Would it be 
better to leave them that way, or to make ALSO and 
have a letter over? ” 

‘“‘'You’ve penetrated to the very heart of the game, 
Dick. The length of the words you make counts more 
than the number of them. Remember that. For, at 
the close, when all the cards have been drawn, each 
player reckons his score according to this schedule: 


“2-letter words count...... 5 points, 
teas rf A te eats Oats 
Aer’ B vit ae aes Loa: 
Oye 7 hm Lew taees 2D) ies, 

6 «¢ cc aCe Teen ee 50 ce 
pits ra ae t 100“ 


A NEW WORD-GAME 25 


me ts 2 EVR at 200821145 
Diva: _ ee ts SOO Fis 
The longest word wins 

anextraih i iy. ROO) etn 


Subtract the number of your unused letters. 
Four games make one set.” 


“Dad, that’s a lallapaloosa! I think that’s going to 
beat ’em all. But, say—lI can see that, unless you’re 
going to have the longest word on the table, or a num- 
ber of long words, it might be best to make as many 
short words as you could. Isn’t that so? ” 

“Yes. That’s where your judgment comes in. At 
any time, during the play, you can change your words 
to make them longer or make them more—if you see 
the way to do it. As players said of another game I 
showed you, ‘ There’s more to this thing than you’d 
think.’ Of course, only words to be found in the dic- 
tionary must be used.” 

“Does adding an S to a word—I mean making a 
plural out of a singular—give you another draw? ” 

“No; for you haven’t made another word. But it 
does give you a longer word, of course.” 

“IT see. And all the letters you draw and can’t use 
then, you keep to use later if you can? ” 

“Certainly. You’re always hoping to draw letters 
that will enable you to use up those lying idle; for all 
unused letters count against your score at the end. A 
lot depends upon how many vowels you are fortunate 
enough to draw. Among the four players there are 
twenty vowels,—but anyone may be so unlucky as to 
draw but few of them, while his consonants pile up and 
can’t be used. It’s a little maddening to keep drawing 
H’s and T’s and X’s when, perhaps, an A or an E would 
complete a nice long word.” 


IV 
ANOTHER WORD-GAME 


oh ID you ever do one of these word-competition 
Ll) things? ” 
“‘Isn’t that a little vague, Dick? ” 

“Well, here’s an ad that offers a prize of an air-gun 
to the one who sends in the longest list of words made 
out of the letters in ‘ BANGS’ BEST JELLY.’ ” 

““Oh, yes; I used to be keen for such work. It’s 
lots of fun and helps one’s spelling—if you go about 
it methodically.” 

“TI don’t know what you mean, Dad.” 

“Why, if you just go hit-or-miss-it, you’re never 
certain of getting half the words. ‘ Bangs’ Best Jelly’ 
won’t give you many, anyway, for it contains only two 
vowels—A and E. This is the way to start: 

“Take the first letter, B in this case, and try linking 
it up with each of the others in tub BA: BN, BG, 
BS, BB, BE! There’s our first word. Going on, we 
get BY for the second one. So we know that we can 
have but two words of two letters beginning with B. 
See the method I mean now? ” 

“Sure I do. Then what—start with A? ” 

“Not yet. Take BA with the others, and see what 
we get. BAN is your third word, BAG i is the fourth, 
BAT the fifth, BAY the sixth. Of course you’ve no- 
ticed BEE and BELL and BALL, and maybe BET and 
BANT and BEAST; but don’t put them down until 
you get to them in the careful way I’ve shown you. 


26 


ANOTHER WORD-GAME 27 


When B seems to be entirely used up, before starting 
A, glance over the shorter words in the dictionary be- 
ginning with BA and BE. There’s BAB, for instance; 
but probably proper names won’t count. Good luck to 
you, Dick! ‘Luck’ consisting of nine-tenths hard 
work, as usual.” 

“ What’s the other tenth, Dad? ” 

“‘ Generally, opportunity.” 

‘“Do you remember any of the ones you worked 
out? ” 

‘““We used to take a long word like Constantinople, 
or Fermentation, and list up hundreds of words from 
it. When you have four vowels out of the five, and a 
good assortment of consonants, you’ve some headwork 
on hand, and no mistake. Proper names and plurals 
and all obsolete words ought to be prohibited. Diction- 
aries may be allowed or not, as you choose. Bring 
around half a dozen of your friends some evening, and 
we'll try out a few words, limiting each trial to fifteen 
minutes. Tell you what, Dick, I agree to award the 
finest pocket dictionary I can find to the final winner.” 

“Bully for you, Dad! Only I don’t suppose it 
would look very nice for me to win, would it—under 
the circumstances? ”’ 

“‘ We won’t make any announcement about that; but 
if you do win, we’ll insist upon the runner-up accepting 
the prize. Another thing—to make it perfectly fair, 
don’t you think you ought to teach the boys the method 
I have shown you tonight? ” 

“ That’s only square, Dad. TVll doit. And if you'll 
let me make a note of some good words to practice 
on, we'll all be in fine shape when the tussle comes. 
Will you? ” 

“‘ Yes—reserving some particularly interesting ones 


28 SAY, DAD! 


for the great competition. Let’s see. Put down the 
two I mentioned—Constantinople and Fermentation. 
Then, Hieroglyphic, Irreproachable, Misanthrope, 
Rationalization.” 

“Wow, Dad! I’m not sure how to spell one of 
them! ” 

‘“‘ Webster is—and looking them up will help you to 
remember them. If the fellows say they’d rather follow 
the hit-or-miss-it method than ours, let them. When 
they see your lists they’ll reform. With the haphazard 
way, most persons will overlook many of the simplest 
words. They’ll write down TEN, and never think of 
NET—the same word turned about. By the way, until 
you look into it, you’ll never realize how many words 
make sense when spelt backwards. Of course, a few 
spell the same both ways—like LEVEL.” 

“That’s interesting. Couldn’t there be another 
game bringing in that backward-spelling idea? ” 

“ Easily, Dick. For example, you might try to find 
how many reversed words are related to the original— 
like red-rum and murder.” 

‘Say, Dad—that’s wonderful! ” 

“Some whole sentences read the same both ways. 
One of them is, “‘ Name no one man.” 

“ That’s certainly queer.” 

‘“‘ But the most remarkable sentence I ever heard of, 
perfectly reversible, is attributed to Napoleon. It’s 
this: ‘ Able was I ere I saw Elba.’ ” 


V 
HOW TO PLAY KINGS DODGE 


you, Dad? ” 
“‘ Checker-solitaire is yet to be invented, 
Dick. I’ve been thinking over the rules of Kings 
Dodge.” 

“‘ What’s that—a new game? I never heard of it.” 

“It’s just been born. It’s at least a week since you 
sprang Bomo on your friends, so I thought I’d better 
be ready with a new game.” 

“Dad, you’re certainly a peach! I was wondering 
the other day if you couldn’t make another game out 
of checkers. I looked for it in the encyclopedia and 
couldn’t find it.” 

“You should have looked for ‘draughts.’ That’s 
what the French called it way back in 1688, when a 
book came out about it. No one knows who invented 
it; but the Romans played a game very much like it, 
using only sixteen squares. And the Greeks used some 
such board with a kind of No-man’s-Land in the cen- 
tre. What I call Kings Dodge is very simple as you 
will see.” 

“ But a bully lot of fun, Dad, like all your other 
games! ” 

“Each of us starts with four kings, or double check- 
ers, and that’s all.” 

“On the four squares nearest him, Dad? ” 

““No, indeed—on the four nearest his opponent. 


29 


x OU’RE not playing checkers by yourself, are 


30 SAY, DAD! 


The aim of each player is to bring all of his kings home 
to his own base line. Do you understand, Dick? ” 

‘“‘ Sure Mike! Let’s begin! ” 

“Never mind Mike,—and you might add ‘ly’ to 
‘sure’ if you’re not too tired. Just as in ordinary 
checkers, our kings may move either forward or back. 
But—now comes the backbone of the game—instead 
of trying to move one of your kings next to one of 
mine, so as to jump and take him, you must do your 
best to keep away. For, whenever two or more enemy- 
pieces are on squares that touch, they are ‘ dead,’ and 
go from the board.” | 

“Gee! Ill say this zs different.” 

‘“'There—you’ve moved one next to one of mine, so 
off they go. Now we’ve but three kings apiece.” 

‘“‘T can see we’ve got to sneak around each other.” 

“That’s why I call it Kings Dodge. They either 
dodge or die. Your move.” ; 

“Ha, Dad—now what? ” | 

“Good for you! By moving that king between tw 
of mine, you’ve left me with only one, and yourself 
with two. Now I'll have to be pretty foxy to get past 
you and reach home. Go ahead.” 

‘““T made you turn back toward my base line, any- 
way. Guess it’ll take some chasing to corner you, Dad, 
though you only have one king. Go on.” 

‘You haven’t left me any choice, Dick.” 

“That’s so! It wasn’t cleverness though, Dad. I 
didn’t see it. Well, the board’s cleared except for my 
last king. Do I win? ” 

“You win the game, and the first five games won 
wins the set.” 

“That’s a lot more fun than the regular game, I 
think. It’s so full of pep and over so soon. But, wait 


HOW TO PLAY KINGS DODGE 31 


a minute—suppose one of us had landed one of his 
kings on his base line? ” 

“In that case he’d have been privileged to start a 
new king on his opponent’s side of the board. Now you 
see what an advantage it is to get a piece home.” 

“Surely. But the king that gets home doesn’t have 
to stay there, does he, Dad? Can’t he sally forth again 
and help his brothers round up the enemy? ” 

“That’s exactly what he does do. Some of the 
games ought to be long and full of surprises. Now, do 
you realize what fun it would be to play Kings Dodge 
outdoors, with the lawn marked off into squares, and 
boys for kings? ” 

“Oh, Dad, that will be corking! Four of us with 
red paper crowns and four with blue.” 

‘“‘ And four more on each side, ready to jump into the 
game if any kings reach home. Why not try it out 
some time at a garden party? The girls could play on 
a ‘board’ of their own, and the winners play the boy 
winners—queens against kings.” 

“We'll do it! It can be a regular costume affair, 
with the kings and queens gotten up like playing cards, 
and jacks to act as umpires, and everybody else as aces, 
deuces and so on. And we'll have radio music and 
refreshments, and— Well, Dad, far be it from me to 
hint at such a thing—but if you were to offer spiffy 
prizes—” 

“Away with you for a crafty knave! Finish that 
home-work! ” 


VI 
NUMBERS ROUND IS FUN 


Hy AY, Dad, you’ve been working over a new 
S loose-leaf book all the evening,—am I in the 
secret? ”’ 

“ Surely, Dick. It’s for you and your friends’ bene- 
fit. It’s to be known as Dad’s Puzzle Book, and in it I 
shall put the games and other brain-exercises that I get 
up in my odd half-hours.” 

“Gee, but the boys’ll love me now! ‘They were 
after me today to get after you for something as good 
as Kings Dodge.” 

‘“‘Here’s a game we'll call Numbers Round. Here 
are one hundred small white cards, numbered in big 
black figures from one to twenty-five. That is, of 
course, there are four ones, four twos, four threes, up 
to four twenty-fives.” 

“The fellows can make their own packs out of old 
calendars, Dad.” 

““Now, let’s try it out. The best way to learn any 
game is to start right in and play it. We'll put all the 
cards here in a pile, faces down, in the centre of the 
table, between us. See that they’re well mixed. As this 
is a four-sided game, we’ll have to play two dummies. 
Each of us will play for the man on his right hand.” 

“ There, they’re all fixed up, Dad. Who begins, and 
how? Do we draw? ” 

“Each of us draws exactly five cards, and places 
them, face up, in a row before him, like this.” 


32 


NUMBERS ROUND IS FUN 33 


“Wait a second, till I get Dave Dummy’s row 
straight.” 

“‘T repeat, for it’s very important, there must never 
be more than five cards in one’s first row, which is 
called the Try Row. Got that, Dick? ” 

“Sure, Dad. —Ly, I mean. Say, couldn’t we have 
a board to play on, and mark spaces for the five cards 
in front of each fellow? ” 

“Tf you like. Now, listen. Each player looks over 
his Try Row, and if he has any two, three or four cards 
alike, he lines them up in his Honour Row, which is 
nearer the centre of the table. The Honour Row may 
have any number of cards in it,—the more the merrier, 
for honour cards are what count at the end of the 
game.” 

‘“‘T see! Look, I’ve three twos, first whack! I start 
an Honour Row with ’em, and that leaves me with two 
empty spaces in my Try Row.” 

“¢ And one of the dummies has a two, the other has a 
three, and I’m out of luck. Well, now that we’ve 
started, it’s all very simple. Each of us in turn draws 
one card from the pool, and gives one card to the player 
on his left.” 

“‘ Not the same card, Dad? ” 

“* Ah, that depends! If the card you draw matches 
any in your Try Row, of course you'll keep it to add 
to your score, and will give your neighbour some card 
you don’t want,—probably your lowest number. [If it 
doesn’t, especially if you’ve nothing lower, you'll pass 
it on. Understand? ” 

“That’s plain enough. The man on your right 
hands you a card, you draw a card, you pass on a card. 
And you keep the ones you can use, and give away the 
ones you can’t. But, wait a jiffy, Dad,—here comes 


34 SAY, DAD! 


the complication! Suppose a player’s Try Row is full, 
and the cards that come to him won’t go into his 
Honour Row—” 

‘“‘T wondered if you’d see that! ” 

“then he’s got to pass ’em on, hasn’t he? ” 

“Unless he chooses to change them for less desirable 
cards in his Try Row. Do you see? All right. But 
there’s one other little point that may come up. Sup- 
pose you pass on a card because you can’t use it and 
you’ve no space to keep it, and it so happens that none 
of the other players can keep or use it, either? What 
phenr 7; 

“‘T never thought of that.” 

‘“‘ Why, when it comes back to the player who started 
it on its thankless journey, he’s allowed to put it back 
in the pool, and draw another in its place. i 

“Great! Now I’ve got the whole circus down pat, 
excepting how you count up at the end of the game.” 

“Well, that’s as simple as simple can be. Each 
player scores as many points as he has numbers in his 
Honour Row—a card bearing the figure 6, counting 6, 
etc. But, besides, for every pair he has, he can double 
his score; for every three of a kind, triple it; for every 
four of a kind, quadruple it. Now you see how a score 
can pile up.” 

“Say, Dad, this game’s the ant’s uncle! Come on 
and play, it’s your dummy’s turn. Wake him up! ” 


Vil 
MORE OF DAD’S PUZZLES 


re AY, Dad, you know my puzzle box? ” 

S “* Puzzle box? ” 

“The one I put all the best ones in I can 
find, from magazines and newspapers—” 

“Yes, I know, Dick; but that sentence of yours 
would bring tears to your rhetoric teacher. You 
seem to be all worked up over something. Anything 
wrong? ” 

“Not wrong, but disappointing, Dad. I’ve just 
come from Uncle Bert’s. He asked me to bring around 
my puzzles some evening, and he wore such a satisfied 
grin that I was bound to take some of the conceit out 
of him.” 

‘“‘He’s the best puzzler I know.’” 

“Tl say he is, Dad! I tried him with everything 
from conundrums to crossword teasers, and he solved 
every single one! ‘ Bring me something that requires a 
little brain-work, Dick,’ he just remarked, with a wider 
grin than ever. So, Dad, can’t we cook up something 
that’ll make him pull his hair for awhile? ” 

“IT don’t know. Your Uncle Bert not only sees all 
sides of a problem at once, but he’s got all of Job’s 
patience without the boils to distract him. Almost the 
only puzzle I ever knew to stump him was one of those 
alphabetical problems in long division.” 

““ What—letters and figures mixed, Dad? ” 

“‘ No—letters instead of figures. Suppose that in 


35 


36 SAY, DAD! 


place of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 0, we use A, B, C, D, E, F, 
G, H, I, J. Then twice B is D, C into I goes C times, 
etc. Anyone could solve that substitution. But, sup- 
pose, instead, we mix up the order of the letters, 
making them run: A, G, C, I, F, E, J, D, H, B, and 
offer someone this little problem: 


“GIF) HGEIA (CJD 
JCF 
AHATI 
AJAF 
AHHA 
AHEB 
CA 9 


“Wow! I don’t care to tackle anything like that, 
Dad! If they ever start figuring with letters, in school, 
I’m all through. I never even imagined doing mathe- 
matics with radio stations! Well, let’s ask Uncle Bert 
how many times JUMBO goes into MENAGERIE 
with XYZ over, or something like that.” 

“We'll get up a good one and try to bother him; but 
in all likelihood he’ll have the laugh on us with any- 
thing he’s ever tried. What I’d like to do would be to 
test him with an entirely new idea. The other night, 
when we were all working at that hard crossword, it 
occurred to me that the process might be reversed, so 
as to make the very dickens of a puzzle. That is, after 
filling in the words, one might create something of a 
brain-teaser by cutting them apart, and asking another 
to fit them together again. Do you see what I mean, 
Dick? ” 

“T think Ido. Let’s try it.” 

‘“‘ All right. Here’s a printed solution of a good one 
in last night’s paper. Don’t look at it. Ill cut it up 


MORE OF DAD’S PUZZLES 37 


so that you'll have all the words that read across, and 
give them to you with the definitions of the words read- 
ing down. You’re to guess the downward words from 
their definitions, just as you would in solving the puz- 
zle in the first place, and then fit together the words I 
give you, so as to form these same downward words. 
Is that clear? ” 

*“¢ What you ask me to do is clear enough; but how in 
the mischief I can do it before I’m grandpa’s age is 
what gets me! It’s just about nine hundred times 
harder than the regular crossword puzzle. I can see 
that.” | 

“Not a bit of it—but pretty hard, I admit, and so 
all the more fun to tackle. We'll get up the best— 
meaning the worst—we can for Uncle Bert, and hope 
to sit around with superior smiles while he wrinkles 
his manly brow in vain. Besides, I’ve another idea 
cooking.” 

“‘ Give me a look-see—won’t you? ” 

‘“‘ Well, it’s founded upon the crossword form, but 
numbers will be used instead of words. For example, 
instead of giving the meaning of a four-letter word, Ill 
give the meaning of four combined figures; as, ‘ Dis- 
covery of America,’ for ‘1492.’ Get the point? Fora 
long number, the definition might be given as, ‘ The 
square-root of the cube of 4496553.’ Solving such 
would be an education, Dick.” 

“Help! Help! Let me out, Dad, before you invent 
any more! Uncle Bert’s doom is sure sealed! ” 


VIII 
AN OLD-TIME GAME OF INDIA 


Hh Y lessons are done, and it’s an hour before 

M bedtime—can’t we play some kind of a 

game, Dad? ” 

“Tf you'll name the game, Dick. You’re tired of 
checkers.” 

‘“‘ Because you always tie up all my men! And I 
don’t like cards, because it’s just luck who gets the 
good ones.”’ 

“In the long run, the good hands are supposed to 
average up; but there’s something in your objection, 
I admit.” 

‘“‘T like a game where everybody starts even—like 
tennis. Even in that the sun and wind make a differ- 
ence. But, to be as unfair as cards, the players would 
have to draw to see who got a broken racket. Chess 
and mah jongg mean a lot of study, and my head’s 
studied out now. Isn’t there something we can play 
that will be fair and square, and fun instead of work, 
Dad? ” 7 

‘““ Have you ever heard of the old Indian game called 
Kboo? It’s easy to learn, easy to play, has no element 
of luck, and is lots of fun. Bring me a dozen butter- 
plates, and then ask your mother for some beads. Let 
me see—we’ll need just forty-eight of them,—big ones 
that we can pick up easily. 

“That’s it! Now each of us will place six of the 
little plates in a line before him—so. Into each 


38 


AN OLD-TIME GAME OF INDIA 39 


plate go four beads, using them all up. All set in a 
jiffy, you see. 

“Now, here’s all there is to remember: I start be 
taking all the beads from any one of my plates—at 
first that means four, of course; but later it may mean 
anything from one bead to a dishful of them—and 
distributing them one in each plate, to the right, like 
this.” 

“ That’s easy. But, wait, Dad! You emptied your 
farthest plate to your left, so each of the beads landed 
in one of your own plates. Suppose you’d emptied, 
say, your fourth plate,—a bead would go in your fifth, 
and one in your sixth. Now, would the two others go 
in my plates? ” 

“Exactly, Dick! We play right around, always to 
our right, just as though the plates formed a circle. 
So, while we take beads out of our own plates only, we 
may have to put some of them in the other’s plates. In 
fact, you'll soon find that emptying a plate that’s pretty 
full may mean dropping beads in your own plates, then 
in all of mine, and then in your own again.” 

“TI see. How far they go depends upon where you 
start, and how many beads you’ve got to drop, one by 
one. Now, you say I can start from any of my plates? 
All right, Dad. J’ll start way to my left—then I won’t 
have to give you even one bead. But, say, Dad, how 
do I win? ” 

“In each turn, if your /ast bead drops into one of 
my plates containing no more than one or two beads,— 
get this rule,—you take all in my plate (including the 
one just dropped), and all in any of my plates you’ve 
just dropped a bead in that now holds not more than 
two beads. If, in this way, you collect 25 before I do, 
you win the game.” 


40 SAY, DAD! 


‘Easy enough. Then, as soon as one of your plates 
has only one or two beads, Pll empty the one of mine 
that will just bring my last bead to that plate of yours, 
and gobble yours up! ” 

“That’s the idea. Only, I'll be watching your plates, 
my boy, and trying to head off your foxy schemes! 
Now, just one thing more, before we begin the battle: 
You'll also win if you can manage to get all of my 
beads on your side, so that I have none to play with. 
Experts consider that a much more scientific victory.” 

“ Say, Dad, I guess there’s a lot more brains needed 
in this game than I thought. It’s easy enough to know 
how to play, but not so easy to win, eh? ” 

“That’s what everyone concludes after playing a 
while. I sprang it on Captain Laing of the Medical 
Corps, who looks upon most games as silly. At first, 
I’m sure he played only from courtesy. When he’d 
succeeded in turning what looked like certain victories 
for me into wins for himself—and a succession of them, 
I must confess—he exclaimed, ‘ By Jove, that’s really 
quite a game! ’” 

‘* Does everyone play it with butter-dishes? ” 

“So far as I know, it’s not on the market. A man I 
know had so many friends crazy over it, that he bought 
some of those round pasteboard boxes druggists use for 
powders, supplied them with paper butter-plates the 
caféterias use and square beads—because they’re easier 
to pick up—and sent them to his acquaintances, far 
and wide. But, suppose you play, old man—or bed- 
time will come before you beat me! ” 


TX 


WINNING AND LOSING 


loser? ” 
““Isn’t every one both? ” 

‘Well, I-suppose so; but what I want to know is, 
why would a person be interested in a loser? Any fel- 
low can Jose; it’s winning that counts. So I can’t see—” 

“‘ Suppose you tell me what brought to mind this little 
problem. I think you’ve missed its point.” 

“ Well, Dad, it was this way: The day after I pitched 
for the school team and we beat the Scarlet Runners 
four to nothing, my psychology teacher said: ‘ I’m glad 
to see that you’re not only a winner but a good winner. 
I wonder if I’ll some day be able to congratulate you 
upon proving yourself a good loser?’ Now, why does 
he want me to lose? ” 

‘He doesn’t, Dick. But when you do, he hopes to 
be proud of you still. Haven’t you learned that it 
takes more real manhood to be a good loser than a 
good winner? Listen! When a man’s successful in 
something he’s striven for and the public cheers him, 
we like to see him modest about it. Let him show his 
satisfaction and even delight with the result, and we’re 
all happy with him. Let him get what the boys call 
‘the big head’ and begin to praise himself, and we 
think him pretty small potatoes after all. Evidently, 
after your victory, the fellows made a fuss over you 
and you took it modestly.” 


41 


i Y Dad, as a boy were you a winner or a 


42 SAY, DAD! 


“T felt rather silly being carted around on their 
shoulders.” 

“Good enough! That’s what your teacher noticed 
and admired in you. You were tickled to death to 
have been a big factor in helping your team to victory, 
but you didn’t especially enjoy being treated as though 
you had done it all. Team play is a case of ‘ one for 
all and all for one,’ as the Three Musketeers put it, and 
you felt that the honours belonged to the whole team, 
the whole school. 

‘““ Now, suppose your side had lost. In fact, suppose 
you knew yourself to have been the principal cause of 
defeat. Although you’d tried your hardest, your pitch- 
ing hadn’t kept the other team from getting in a big 
bunch of runs. What would you have done about it, 
Dick? ” 

“When it was all over? Why, what could I do 
except tell the fellows I was sorry and hope for better 
luck next time? ” 

“ T’ll tell you, you might start in to make excuses for 
yourself by blaming the umpire’s decisions, the work of 
your catcher, the coaching of your captain, the support 
of your side in general. A boy or a man with the alibi 
spirit will lay the blame for defeat on anything and 
anybody but himself. But he never deceives the 
crowd. They always see his yellow streak. He hasn’t 
the manhood to lose out and keep still about it. He’s 
a bad loser.” 

“TI see, Dad. I shan’t be that, believe me! ” 

‘“‘ But the finest losers go farther than that—they do 
more than keep from making excuses. They are ready 
with sincere praise for the winner. I'll never forget 
winning a tennis match against a fellow I’d never liked 
and who certainly had no affection for me. He was a 


WINNING AND LOSING A3 


better player than I and lost because of being a little 
out of condition. The instant the concluding score was 
sung out he ran up to the net, stretched over it a cordial 
hand, and said, with all the good nature in the world: 
“Good work, old man! I’m not ashamed to be licked 
by a Gunga Din like you! ’ He didn’t intend others to 
hear the words, but they got around, and many who 
had disliked him became his close friends.” 

‘‘ Somebody wrote, ‘ Games X-Ray Men’s Souls.’ 

“ That’s pretty good—wish I’d written it! They do. 
A man or boy may hide part of his real self in business 
or in school, but a game of golf or football will expose 
it quickly. Before deciding to go into partnership with 
Ducker, Fasset played tennis with him and beat him. 
Ducker complained that his racket needed restringing. 
Fasset then beat him by two or three holes at golf. 
Ducker complained that his favourite niblick was at 
the repair shop. Fasset beat him seventeen games of 
croquet. Ducker complained that his foot hurt. Fas- 
set gave him an excellent dinner the last night of his 
stay and then broke to him the disappointing news 
that the partnership was not to be considered. Ducker 
was amazed! Weren’t his credentials and everything 
satisfactory? 

“<Q, yes,’ replied Fasset pleasantly. ‘ But I want 
a partner whom [I can play with as well as work with. 
At games an unkind fate never gives you a chance. 
Now, before you go, suppose you beat me at checkers 
—just for a change.’ 

“¢ All right,’ said Ducker, ‘but I’ve an awful 
cold! ’” 


Ad SAY, DAD! 
A BOY AND A TREE 


Lying in the long grass, lazing in the sun, 
Squinting at the tree-tops up against the sky, 

Got to thinking, somehow, must be lots of fun 
Just to be a tree and watch the clouds sail by! 


See the birds a-winging, hear their happy song, 
Smell the woodsy odours carried by the breeze; 

Not a chore to ’tend to all the summer long, 
Just stand there a-talking with the other trees. 


As I lay a-dreaming, sky began to gray, 
Clouds began to pile up, blotting out the sun; 
Looked like night was coming driving off the day 
’Thout a bit of warning, *fore she’d half begun. 


Cold winds came a-rushing, tree-tops swayed and bent, 
Birds all dived for shelter, sky was inky foam; 

Old pine on the hillside cracked, and down she went— 
Me, I just skedaddled hard’s I could for home! 


Looking out the window at the pelting storm 
Slashing through the woods to damage and destroy, 
Got to thinking, somehow, safe and dry and warm, 
Trees, too, have their troubles—rather be a boy! 


II 
SCHOOLDAYS 


AGAINST HIS INCLINATION 


Dad tried his best, when I was young, 
To fix it im my mind, 

That “as the tiny twig is bent 
So ts the tree inclined,” 

And when he’d lay me ’cross his knee 
On punishment intent, 

I used to cry, “ Say, Dad, look out 
Or Ill grow up all bent!” 


And when he’d say, “ Come on, young man, 
And weed this onion bed!” 
Just when I'd planned a fishing trip 
With Jimmie Jones, instead, 
I used to scowl until my face 
Was black as black could be, 
And mutter, “When I do grow up 
[Pll be humpbacked—you'll see!” 


But years have come and years have gone, 
With many a care and trouble, 
With many a load that for a time 
Has bent me nearly double; 
But always I’ve sprung back again 
Before it was too late,— 
For, though he made me bend a bit, 
*Twas Dad who made me straight! 


xX 


A COMPOSITION TO WRITE 


in six compositions. And, what’s worse, to- 
morrow I must hand in the titles of all six—and 
I can’t think what to write about! ” 
“‘ May you write about anything you please, Dick? ” 
“‘ Anything except religion and politics.” 
“Didn’t your teacher make any suggestions? ” 
“Yes. She said if we couldn’t think up original sub- 
jects, we might use any six on this list. Ill read it: 


| N the next two months at school I’ve got to hand 


“* George Washington, 
Courage, 
Sacrifice, 
Battle of Bull Run, 
The Slave Question, 
True Nobility, 
The Dred Scott Decision, 
Abraham Lincoln, 
Brotherhood of Man, 
Education.’ ”’ 


‘“‘ Pardon me, my boy, if I give vent to several deep 
groans of anguish! . . . There—now I feel better. I 
had hoped that modern teaching methods had sunk 
those poor old subjects in a sea of oblivion. For at 
least a century they’ve done duty as last-resort topics 
for vacant-minded children. ‘Tens of thousands of 
wild-eyed students have tried to put ‘in their own 
words,’ the lofty expressions found in histories, biog- 


47 


48 SAY, DAD! 


raphies and books of essays, on these same subjects,— 
any one of which is so broad in scope as to frighten 
most of the mature trained writers. What, for example 
—without copying some one else’s words—would you 
say about ‘ Education’? Honestly, Dick? ” 

“¢ Well—er—without it you’re not much good! ” 

“That ends that. And ‘The Brotherhood of 
Man’ ?” 

“¢ Er—we ought to act more like brothers.” 

“¢ And ‘ Abraham Lincoln’ ? ” 

“He preserved the Union and freed the slaves.” 

“There! Three of your compositions are done, so 
far as original thought is concerned.” 

“But, Dad—each one has to be four pages of 
writing! ” 

‘“‘T know it. So, what is the sense in trying to de- 
velop your reflective and imaginative thought by writ- 
ing upon subjects you know nothing about, but have 
to copy out of books? ” 

“IT see that, Dad; but what can I write? ” 

“Write always of something you personally know 
about. Of course, you can learn of Washington and 
Lincoln only through books—my point is, that exami- 
nations ought to show how well you remember what 
you’ve studied: compositions should prove how well 
you can express your own ideas. Now, this brings us 
to the question, What do you know? ” 

“Well, if you put it that way, Dad, I don’t suppose 
I know anything.” 

‘“‘ Commendably modest, and all that, Dick—but you 
do. For instance, by practice and observation you 
know a good deal about the game of marbles. The 
other day I heard you telling a younger boy the names 
of the different marbles, which are the best ‘ shoot- 


A COMPOSITION TO WRITE 49 


ers,’ and exactly how to hold them, and so on. That 
ought to make a composition at once original and 
interesting.” 

“Gee! Will my teacher stand for that sort of com- 
position, Dad? Just about what I’ve found out on 
my own hook? ” 

“Tf she doesn’t sigh with relief when she reads it, 
and congratulate you for leaving the beaten path, I 
shall be most disappointed in her. Then, why not 
write about the boys’ books you’ve read that you don’t 
think amount to much—and tell why you didn’t like 
them? Follow that with another on those you like 
best, and why. We made a visit to the aquarium a 
while ago, and I saw you taking notes of some of the 
queer fish there. That trip can easily be turned into 
a very readable four pages.” 

“* And, Dad, I can easily do another about what 
radio has taught me! And how I built my set.” 

“Very good, indeed. And how will it do to give 
your ideas concerning this writing of compositions— 
that they ought to be something better than rewritten 
thoughts and discoveries of other men—that they 
should reflect the personal ideas and ideals and experi- 
ences of the writer? All right, then, here are your six 
subjects, ready to be handed in tomorrow: 


“The Game of Marbles, 
Boys’ Books I Like, 
Boys’ Books I Don’t Like, 
Some Queer Fish, 
What Radio Has Taught Me, 
My Idea of a Good Composition.” 


“Thank you, Dad! I sure was dreading all that 
work, and now I know it’s going to be great fun.” 


XL 
WHY DO WE STUDY? 


ay AY, Dad, I thought we studied so as to know 
S more! ” 
‘“* Don’t we? ” 

“Well, I suppose so; but there must be other 
reasons.” 

“That wouldn’t surprise me, Dick. Know of 
any? ”’ 

“T’ve got to by tomorrow or be jumped on in school. 
You see, Dad, it’s like this. Mr. Wadsworth, the Su- 
perintendent, heard some fellow say, ‘ What’s the good 
of studying all this stuff, when we'll forget most of it 
and never use the rest?’ He mentioned this in chapel 
today, and said that every boy must bring in three 
reasons for study, outside of the storing up of 
knowledge.” 

‘“‘ How did the boys take to the idea? ” 

“Gee, Dad, they didn’t! Most of us felt like 
Tommy Lamb. He said, ‘The only three I know are 
the lickin’s I’d get from Pop, Mom and my big brother 
If dda blot, 

‘‘What are you going to do about it? You don’t 
wish me to give you the three-sided answer, do you? ” 

“That wouldn’t be square, of course, Dad. But 
can’t you prod me until I sort of get on the right 
track? ” 

‘“‘Maybe so. In the first place, I dare say there are 
fifty good reasons for study, besides the main one, let 


50 


WHY DO WE STUDY? 51 


alone three. To make a start, what is a man like who 
has never studied? ” 

“Well, for one thing, he’s dead slow. It takes him 
four times as long to catch on to a thing, and then he 
doesn’t usually have many ideas about it.” 

“In other words, study exercises the brain, just as 
a tug-of-war does the finger muscles, enabling us to 
grasp things better. And an alert mind possesses 
imagination.” 

“Wait till I get that down, Dad. Now another 
prod! ” 

“‘ What’s the first thing you do about a hard problem 
in mathematics? ” 

“‘ Find out which rule applies to it? ” 

“Exactly. Decision on that point must be made 
before you can go ahead. How about that hundred- 
word outline of ten lessons in history that you had to 
write a while ago,—how did you begin? ” 

“ By digging out the most important facts? ” 

“Correct. Decision again. Study develops it in us.” 

“ T’ve got that. Now for the last.” 

“‘ This may not be so easy to reach, although it’s the 
most valuable of all. It applies to all earnest study, 
and helps a person to meet every obstacle in life. Let 
me see. Yes, here’s an illustration of just what I mean. 
Norman Fanning was about your age when his father 
and mother died, leaving him heir to a large fortune, a 
palace of a home and a big factory. His uncle, who 
told me all this, was left in charge of everything, in- 
cluding the boy himself. Now, Norman, unfortunately, 
had been brought up by two of the most indulgent 
parents who ever imagined that a boy with too much 
spending money and too little responsibility would ever 
amount to much.” 


52 SAY, DAD! 


“What is too much spending money for a boy, 
Dad? ” 

‘“‘ A nickel more than I give you, Dick! Well, this 
uncle had never seen much of Norman, and he planned 
to send him through college, and then put him in his 
father’s place at the head of the great factory. One 
interview with the boy disheartened him. He was 
enough of a judge of character to see at once that 
Norman was a weakling, unambitious and cowardly. 
He’d been shielded from everything that was hard, and 
shrank from everything requiring effort or grit. In 
fact, he was not at all ashamed to tell my friend that 
he couldn’t ‘ think of mixing with all those rough crea- 
tures at college,’ and that he didn’t care for study, 
anyway! ” 

“Say, Dad, what did his uncle do with the poor 
simp—drown him? ” 

‘“‘He put him in a boarding-school, where he was 
never ill-treated, but where the discipline was military 
in its rigour,—also where no one cared whether he was 
the son of a millionaire or of a rag-picker. At first he 
rebelled, and refused to study. He’d have run away 
if he’d had the nerve. But finally, finding that throw- 
ing fits didn’t bring him anything more enjoyable than 
a bread-and-water diet, Norman behaved.” 

“Tl bet, though, he never amounted to much—eh, 
Dad? ” 

“Three years of having definite tasks to do, and 
being obliged to do them; of being held responsible for 
things that required not only effort but keen thinking; 
of facing problems that must be solved then and there, 
—these things made a man of him. So make your 
third answer: We study to overcome!” 


XII 
TAKING WORDS APART 


oh AY, Dad, when you were a boy, were they 
S always at you to ‘ enlarge your vocabulary ’? ” 
“Very likely, Dick. Is that your particular 

burden just now? ” 

“‘ Well, it’s like this: At school, whenever we come 
across a word we can’t define, we must look it up.” 

“ That’s sensible.” 

““T suppose so; but how am I going to remember 
what the queer ones mean? Antipodes, for instance.” 

‘What does it mean? ” 

““*A place on the opposite side of the earth.’ 
Couldn’t they have got up an easier word than that? ” 

“‘ Let’s take it apart and see if it isn’t an easy one. 
What does enti mean? Yes, you do, Dick. When is 
a thing antichristian? ” 

“When it’s against Christianity. That’s so! ” 

“ All right. And against is opposite to. Antipodes, 
then, must mean opposite to something. Now, the 
podes part must remind you of your Latin word for 
feet, pedes. You had that in a lesson the other day. 
It’s Greek for the same thing. Now what have we? ” 

‘“‘Er—opposite the feet. That must be the head.” 

“No, no! Use your imagination. Aren’t the peo- 
ple of the antipodes ‘standing upside down,’ as we 
say, exactly opposite to our feet with the world 
between? ” . 

“Sure they are, Dad! Say, that’s a bully word, 


53 


54 SAY, DAD! 


after all. J’ll never forget that one. Can I pick them 
all apart like that and get the real sense of them? ” 

“Why not? What’s the next word on your list? ” 

*“¢ Ambiguous.” 

“Well, ambi means around, and ago means to drive. 
So an ambiguous statement is one that ‘drives all 
around Robin Hood’s barn’; it’s indefinite and may 
be understood in different ways. While a boy, if you'll 
make friends with an unabridged dictionary and with 
-Roget’s Thesaurus (which groups words not alphabet- 
ically but according to the ideas se express), you'll 
find the study of words fascinating.” 

“But, say, Dad, why have so many words that 
mean the same thing? What’s the use? ” 

“No two words always mean the same thing. 
There'll be some fine shade of difference when they’re 
used in different connections.” 

“T think of two, dad, that mean exactly the same 
thing. Isn’t a stingy man always the same as a 
miserly man? ”’ 

““Not necessarily. A stingy man hates to spend his 
money and does so in a mean, ungenerous manner; but 
perhaps he never stores it up like a miser, who some- 
times is known to starve to death rather than buy food, 
even stingily. See the difference? ” 

“Say, Dad, I never supposed words were such fun! 
Figures seem like little imps always trying to stump 
me; but words, now, begin to seem like little goblins 
glad to work for me. Tell me about that word, stingy.” 

“Drop the ‘y’ and you have it—sting, stinging, 
piercing, skarp. The stingy man is supposed to be a 
sharper, although he’s sometimes honest but ungener- 
ous. Now I hope the phrase, ‘ enlarging your vocabu- 
lary,’ doesn’t sound quite so terrifying.” 


XIII 
DO YOU KNOW YOU KNOW? 


Vi HAT’S the sense in this: ‘ We know so little, 
and half we know isn’t so? ” 
“It’s an epigrammatic way of saying that 
half we think we know isn’t true.” 

‘Do you believe that, Dad? ” 

“ Let’s try it out with some of the things you’re sure 
of. For instance, ‘ Ye,’ the old definite article—how 
should it be pronounced? ”’ 

“The same as our ‘ THE,’ of course! ” 

“You caught me that time, Dick! Nearly every- 
body says, ‘ Ye,’ like the ‘ Ye’ meaning ‘ You.’ They 
used ‘ Y’ for another character called thorn, which 
sounded like our ‘TH.’ Well, here’s another: What 
was the original meaning of ‘ forest?’ ” 

“* A woods.” 

“No, sir. It meant any portion of land outside the 
city—(foris is Latin for outside)—-where the king 
hunted or indulged in sports. There needn’t have been 
a tree in sight. Little by little it came to the meaning 
we know. 

“Do you suppose a dunce was ever anything but a 
boob, as you say? ” 

“Of course not.” 

“He was a learned man. It’s in reference to the 
great scholar, Joannes Duns Scotus, who lived in the 
fourteenth century. Now, bring me that fat volume 
over there. ~That’s it—Popular Fallacies. Listen and 


55 


56 SAY, DAD! 


learn: A king originally was a ruling monarch, whether 
male or female. The Hungarians used to cry, ‘ Long 
live our king, Maria Theresa!’ A fond father once 
meant a silly father. As for the word, ‘ cutlass,’ what 
do you suppose that’s from? ” 

“The word, ‘ cut,’ of course.” 

“Not a bit of it! It’s from the French word for 
knife, couteau. A greyhound needn’t be grey at all, 
for grey in Icelandic means ‘ dog.’ An omelette needn’t 
be made of eggs, if we go by the first sense—/amella 
being the Latin for ‘thin plate.’ Strawberries were 
called that because the runners were strewed over the 
ground. Toads have nothing to do with toadstools, 
the word being made up of the German tod and 
stuhl, ‘ death-stool,’ because so many of them are 
polsonous.”’ 

“T surrender, Dad! Guess I don’t know anything.” 

‘“‘ How many senses have we? ” 

‘“‘ Five — seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and 
touching.” 

“Can you estimate the weight of a thing by merely 
touching it? ” 

‘“‘ No, I have to lift it.” 

‘Then you tell by the sense of resistance, don’t you? 
Scientists nowadays wonder if we shouldn’t count in 
the senses of proportion, colour, time, pleasure, shame, 
humour, and memory. Robert Louis Stevenson sug- 
gested the last. Now, of course, you can tell me what 
a whale is? ” 

“Well, rather, Dad! It’s a big fish that squirts 
water out of its nose. I do know that much.” 

“That’s correct except in two points. A whale, be- 
ing warm-blooded and without scales and with lungs, 
is a mammal instead of a fish; and only air is blown 


DO YOU KNOW YOU KNOW? 57 


from its nose, although that sometimes forces up a 
column of water.” 

‘*Humph! ” 

“Do you know of two little animals that are natu- 
rally blind? ” 

“Well, bats are—and, oh yes, moles.” 

“Wrong on both counts! They act so in the blind- 
ing light—that’s all. How should you lift a live 
rabbit? ” 

“ By the ears.” 

“Never, Dick. It’s torture to the delicate creatures. 
Take them carefully by the loose skin back of their 
shoulders, and they'll be so thankful they'll never 
struggle a bit.” 

“‘ Say, Dad—I guess I’d better leave school and just 
read that book! Lately I’ve been hearing that some 
Norwegian came over here long before Columbus, that 
the Chinese invented and discovered almost everything 
we call new, centuries ago, and that the Washington 
cherry-tree story is only bunk. Here I’ve been trying 
to learn what is, all these years, when I ought to have 
been getting onto what isn’t, seems to me! Next thing 
I know, Dad, you’ll be telling me that Adam and Eve 
didn’t eat an apple.” 

“What makes you think it was an apple? ” 

“The Bible says so! ” 

“Go look it up—Genesis 3: 6. The idea that the 
fruit was an apple came from pictures the old masters 
painted. And Cinderella’s slipper was of sable (vair) 
not glass (verre). And if one and one make two, how 
about one horse added to one cart—what two is that? ” 


XIV 
DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? 


i VERY now and then, Dad, wherever we hap- 
pen to be, you take out a little book and make 
notes in it. If it isn’t a secret—” 

“Not a bit of it, Dick. It occurred to me that it 
might be interesting to put down the mistakes in gram- 
mar and pronunciation overheard on the street and in 
the cars. I purposely omitted noting anything said by 
those plainly ignorant and unschooled. Each one of 
these examples of ‘ bad English’ was uttered by some- 
one who should have known better. Fourteen times I 
heard men and women who looked of average intelli- 
gence say, ‘ Don’t chew’ for “ Don’t you.’ ” 

‘“‘ We fellows beat that—we say, ‘ Doncha.’ ” 

“Twenty-one times I heard like used for as,—as, 
‘Like Jim did it.’ Some newspapers admit this error, 
and the popular songs love it. Nine girls, who had 
been very particular about their hair and nails, said, 
‘He sent it to May and I,’ or ‘ He’s going to take 
Helen and I with him.’ How could he send anything 
to ‘J,’ or take ‘J’ with him? Then I got tired of writ- 
ing down, Noo York and Av’noo or Av’ner. Only once 
did I hear TheAter, thank goodness! But ail the days 
of the week became dees, from Mondee to Sundee. 
The only sundae I know of is a pile of fruit and nuts 
and goo in a glass of ice cream.” 

‘“‘T guess most folks don’t think about words.” 

“You guess so, Dick, because you’re a Northern 


58 


DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? 59 


boy. A Southerner would reckon so, and a Down- 
Easter would cal’late,—while you all would really 
think or believe so. Well, here’s an entry of, ‘ Ain’t 
got no sense,’ and another of, ‘ Ain’t done nothin’ 
about it.’ Both of these vulgarisms were uttered by a 
man who reads the papers, if nothing else; yet he’s too 
unobservant, and too careless to learn the language 
he reads.” 

‘“‘A boy told me that he says, ‘I ain’¢ done it,’ be- 
cause haven’t sounds stuck-up! ” 

“Every day, of course, I hear sure for surely or 
certainly or plain yes. ‘The elevated road is often 
called the elevater road. YVesterdee, but never, todee. 
C’ris’ mus, photographt, and pianner struck my ears on 
one block. Two well-dressed men in the subway were 
having a heated discussion about their cars’ respective 
rad-tators. I wondered if they ever talked about 
their rad-ios, and if they think the sun rad-iates 
heat? Then an intelligent woman, whose speech in 
other respects was sound and normal, told her escort 
how fond she was of broiled blue feesh/ That was a 
new one to me. Do you suppose she partakes of it 
from a deesh? ” 

“Wonder if she likes the acting of Lillian Geesh? ” 

“That reminds me of a girl in an elevator, who de- 
clared that Gloria Swanson (rhyming it with Hanson) 
ought to play opposite Rod La Rogue. And she and 
her friend had much to say about schoo-ul,—one of 
your favourite lapses, Dick. Was it not croo-ul to set 
the foo-ul on a stoo-ul in schoo-ul? ” 

“Wow! Ill remember that xow, Dad! ” 

“Two gorgeously gowned women of the dowager- 
duchess type passed me in a store, highly excited over 
certain bargains they had secured in embroidered 


60 SAY, DAD! 


nigowns and pajammers. A minute later I heard 
another tell of having just purchased a sew’-machine.” 

“Do people who live where everything isn’t in so 
much of a rush use better English, Dad? ” 

“The slowest places I’ve ever been in used dialects 
that would be nearly meaningless to an educated 
Englishman. He may drop his final g’s, thereby gainin’ 
the soft soundin’ endin’s of our own South,—but he 
knows better. With him it’s a harmless affectation. 
We’re noted for being careless with our speech, al- 
though correct English is a joy to hear and to read.” 

“In school we’re always being told to use language 
and not slanguage. But, if I started in to talk like a 
college professor—s’posen I could—the kids’d give me 
the ras’berry! Even the teachers’d be worried about 
me, and probably phone for you to take me away 
before I died! ” 

“No excuses, now, young man! I expect you to 
speak and write beautiful English, by reading the best 
books, listening to the best speakers, and learning to 
love your mother-tongue. Remember—‘ bad English ’ 
is not English at all.” 

“Tl try, Dad. Have you finished your notes? ” 

“Except for two gems. A vision in sage green in- 
advertently informed me that, ‘ Lily’s got a loverly 
dorgue (rhyming with morgue). Another ‘ modern’ 
in beige remarked that she sure did adore a good 
tabble-de-hoot.” 


XV 
QUICK NOTE-TAKING 


ie AY, Dad, is shorthand very hard to learn? ” 
~ ‘‘A number of stenographers have told’ me 
that three months of hard study had to be fol- 
lowed by six more of daily practice before they 
amounted to much. Why?” 

“‘ At school we have to take notes on the lectures, 
and while I’m writing one thing, I miss something else. 
I hurry so, that I can hardly read what I’ve written, 
anyway.” 

“IT know, Dick. I had the same trouble. Around 
the house somewhere is a thin little book that saved 
me. I don’t know who wrote it or who published it— 
but it was a system of contractions, called brief- 
longhand, that I memorized in a few hours, and that 
enabled me to make copious notes without panic. 
After some practice, in fact, Professor Osborn sus- 
pected me of skimping the notes on his lectures, as 
he’d see my pencil idle while the others were furiously 
at work. He was satisfied when I read to him nearly 
every word he had uttered.” 

“And you didn’t use any of those curleycues, 
Dad? ” 

“Not one. All I did was omit unnecessary letters in 
words. For instance, better became betr, batter be- 
came bair, butter became butr. Of course, if you leave 
out too many letters, or the essential ones, you won’t 
know what you’ve written; but, what can mt mean 


61 


62 SAY, DAD! 


except empty—and who wouldn’t read gt rmy as 
great army?” 

“Why, Dad, I think that’s just one bully idea! If 
you can’t find that book, will you get up a system ~ 
for me? ” | 

‘“‘T can’t spare the time for that, Dick; but I’ll help 
you make one for yourself. As a starter, suppose we 
shorten about fifteen words.” 

“But what fifteen, Dad? That’s the point.” 

““'Won’t it be sensible to shorten the fifteen that we 
use the most? ” 

“‘ Of course—but who knows what they are? ” 

“‘ Princeton University says that these are the ones: 
in, and, that, a, the, to, with, be, of, as, all, at, not, 
for, an. 


Now, suppose for 7m you write n, 
ce 


Onis! ties d, 
VeRO hes eG tee tt, 
‘" @ oF an a, 
TERALIRG vege e, 
ALO te ete ee dee 0, 
“with Ww, 
MDG. ¢ b, 
EPS OT S15 tatty rede f; 
SLR con ran een S 
Ae BOUL b. 
BEYER 6h RHEE SS teh), a 
aie abe be eiee eel eee nt, 
iT for : r? 


‘All right, Dad. It won’t take me long to get 
used to those. That ought to save a good many 
seconds.” 

“Then, of course, you'll omit as many silent letters 
as possible. Anyone can understand—liv, singl, eain, 


QUICK NOTE-TAKING 63 


raind, fethr, lethr, tong, gues, and so on. Change the 
past-tense sign from ed to ¢, as in lookt. Ph and gh 
become f, in words like fomic and lafir. You catch 
the idea, Dick? ” 

“ You’d better believe I do, Dad! I used to spell by 
sound before I went to school. I wish everyone did 
that, always—then we’d never have to learn spelling.”’ 

“Shame on you, Dick! After the talks we’ve had 
about etymology, and how interesting it is to trace 
back the histories of words through changes in spelling 
and meaning! Now, see here, young man, you’re not 
to let this note-taking by mangled words get you into 
bad habits. You must re-write your notes in perfect 
English, after every lecture.” 

“Of course I'll do that, Dad. I’d be ashamed to be 
a poor speller. Besides, every now and then the 
teacher asks to see our notes; and if I let him gaze on 
a page or two of this chop-suey stuff, probably I’d find 
myself in the kindergarten! Didn’t you use to do your 
notes over, Dad? ” 

“I transcribed them on a typewriter. It wasn’t 
much more than a toy, I remember, and wrote with 
rubber type, without a ribbon. But old Professor Os-’ 
born was so tickled with the neatness of my notes, that 
he’d bite me less painfully than was his habit, when 
I’d flunk in ancient history.” 

“Say, Dad—you’ve given me a new idea! What’s 
the matter with my having a sure-enough typewriter, 
and becoming the particular pet of all my teachers, eh? 
One of these portable ones, that I can take with me on 
vacations, and all?” 

“Tl tell you what—practice on mine till you can 
send me a full-page letter, perfectly written, and see 
what happens! ” 


XVI 
ARE PUNS ALL RIGHT? 


Y teacher says that puns are contemptible. 
Are they? ” 


“That depends up-pun their pungency.” 

“Now, Dad! I begin to think he’s right.” 

“Like the vacuum-cleaner ad that claims that 
brooms are taboo, your teacher’s statement is too 
sweeping. Many so-called puns are not puns at all; 
for a real pun is a witty use of a word in two senses. 
For the mere play on words with a similar sound, we 
have a long word from the Greek—paronomasia. I 
relish a real pun, but I gag at the silly counterfeit. If 
you were to say, ‘ Dad, of horse-shoe know Mary Had 
a Little Lamb,’—just because it occurred to you that 
‘of course you’ and ‘ of horse-shoe’ sound very much 
alike—I’d feel like inviting you and my largest slipper 
out to the garage. But, if you said, ‘ Dad, of horse- 
shoe know The Village Blacksmith,’ I’d smile and 
tell you to spring that on your mother. See the 
difference? ” 

“Yes. But audiences howl at the parowhatyou- 
callems, just the same. A balloon-faced boob says 
he’ll sing the song about the Big Horse, and every- 
body screams when he begins, ‘ Big Horse I love 
you.’ > 

‘“‘ But it was the man who was funny. I know, for I 
was there, and grinned out loud, myself. Many a man 
owes his reputation as a wit more to his manner than 


64 


ARE PUNS ALL RIGHT? 65 


his remarks. If you must joke, do so with a solemn 
face, and never laugh at your own attempts to be 
funny.” 

““ At the ‘ Y’ last night, someone spoke of the con- 
ductor of the orchestra as the ‘ flower’ of the club. 
‘ Baton-ically speaking! ’ added Sam Stuart, and we 
all went for him. But that wasn’t the worst. Dr. 
Williams had given a lecture on Joan of Arc, and some 
fellow remarked that she must have been a sweet girl, 
being Maid of Orleans. Before all of us quite got that, 
Sam pipes up, ‘It’s too bad there’s not mo’-lasses 
like her! ” 

“'That’s worthy of boiling oil, at least! At college 
we compelled a certain would-be wit to go to chapel 
wearing a dunce-cap. He had asked, ‘Who was the 
first royal dentist in history?’ When we all gave up, 
he said, ‘ Jonah, I suppose; for we know he felt the 
prints-of-whales’ teeth.’ If that isn’t the worst conun- 
drum ever perpetrated, I’m uninformed, that’s all. 
Seventy-five years ago, punsters stood a much better 
chance of being allowed to live to old age than they do 
today. ‘The old magazines are sprinkled with near- 
puns, with the key words printed in italics so that the 
dullest mind could get the point. You needn’t starve 
on a desert island, because of the sand-wich is there,— 
that sort of remark went well in our grandparents’ 
time.” 

“‘ What’s that old one about the pancakes, Dad? ” 

“You mean, ‘Why are flapjacks like butterflies? 
Because both make the butter-fly.’ I knew an old 
farmer who laughed at that for at least twenty years; 
and the one about hadn’t ‘ kicked the bucket,’ but only 
‘turned a little pail.’ I wonder, though, if modern 
jokes are any better? ” 


66 SAY, DAD! 


“Did you hear the one about current events being 
light reading, Dad? ” 

“Ugh! That’s the kind that jokesmiths have to 
turn out by the column, day after day. Unconscious 
humour is always the best; and some of the answers 
made in good faith at school examinations are ex- 
quisite. ‘The appendix is part of the Cont ete wrote 
a little girl in my class in physiology, ‘and is usually 
placed at the end.’ Another wrote, ‘ A dog pants with 
his tongue because his paws are ay fur.’ ” 

‘“‘ A kid in the class below me was asked to define 
the word ‘ vocalize.’ She said, ‘ Falsehoods that are 
spoken or sung,’—and we all got kept in for laughing.” 

“If brevity is the soul of wit, wit is the spice of 
language. Without it, conversation is dull as the Con- 
gressional Record or the telephone book. The alert 
mind and lively imagination see more than one mean- 
ing in a word-sound, more than one side to a question, 
more than one possibility to a situation. The man 
who goes through life unmindful of its funny side 
misses much of its sunny side. 

‘¢¢ What in the world do you see to smile at? ’ asked 
Vera Dense, as we crossed the street together. 

““< That stupid-looking taxi-driver’s face just back 
of the “ Vacant ” sign,’ I explained. 

“* Why,’ she kindly informed me, ‘ that simply indi- 
cates that the cab is without a passenger ’! ” 


XVII 


HAVING FUN WITH FIGURES 


figures? ”’ 
“Why should I hate my friends? ” 

““¢* Friends!’ They’re no friends of mine, Dad. 
When I’m doing arithmetic with them, they tell me 
awful whoppers, and I believe them, and get into 
trouble. Yet people say that figures never lie! ” 

“The right figures never do. Of course, associ- 
ation with the wrong figures, just as with the wrong 
people, is liable to prove disappointing. While I 
admit that letters are more interesting to me, fig- 
ures are mighty likable little fellows if only for 
their simplicity. The letter A, for example, has 
many sounds and many meanings—let your dic- 
tionary surprise you about that—but the figure 1 
has a single pronunciation and never changes its 
meaning. 

“Three ants and three elephants and three worlds,— 
the number can signify but one thing, one plus one 
plus one of the entities, in each case. So, when you 
obtain a wrong answer to a problem, Dick, don’t blame 
the faithful figures—blame the careless boy! If you 
write down, 6 plus 7 equals 12, the figures are not 
fibbing. The 2 is terribly ashamed to be in the wrong 
company, and the 3 is lonely because you didn’t place 
it beside its mate, 1.” 

“T see, Dad; but it’s so easy to get them mixed. 


67 


ry S AY, Dad, when you were a boy did you hate 


68 SAY, DAD! 


I’m never sure I’ve multiplied correctly. Now, these 
percentages—” 

‘“‘ What percentage have you just calculated? ” 

“ Twenty-five. And I’ve multiplied a row of figures 
*way across the pad, and each time the answer’s 
different.”’ 

‘“‘ Check up your answer by dividing by four.” 

“'How’ll that prove anything, Dad?” 

“Twenty-five percent means 25 in 100, doesn’t it? 
That’s 1 in 4. Whether you multiply by 25 and point 
off two places, or divide by 4, you’re finding a quarter 
of your full amount. Haven’t they taught you that 
at school? ” 

“Tf they tried to, Dad, it must have got by me. 
Wait a minute! There, my last answer was right, 
after all! Gee! Can I do that with these other 
percentages—fifty, seventy-five, thirty-three and a 
third, sixty-six and two-thirds, twenty, twelve and 
aialer 

“Think it out for yourself.” | 

“ Fifty, Pll divide by two. Seventy-five, PIl—” 

“Multiply by three and divide by four. See? ” 

“*Oh, yes! Now I’m all right, Dad. Thanks ever 
so much for giving me the tip. I guess figures are 
interesting when you know enough about them.” 

“Everything in creation, Dick, is packed full of in- 
terest. Ignorance of a subject makes it seem dull and 
prosy. The next time you feel inclined to pity the man 
who has a passionate interest in electrons or the stars, 
or moths or old china, or first editions or black ants— 
just remember that a savage might consider you loony 
for enjoying books and civilized music.” 

“Tl tell the boys that. Some of the fellows have 
no fathers to put ’em wise to such things. I'll bet 


HAVING FUN WITH FIGURES 69 


there are a lot of things about figures we never think 
of, eh, Dad? ” 

‘When you haven’t so much home work to do, I'll 
tell you some queer things about the number nine. 
Just now I was thinking of a boy in my class who had 
a hard struggle with addition. He never could seem to 
add to five and seven, seven and six, eight and nine, for 
instance, without counting on his fingers. With prac- 
tice, our subconscious brain is supposed to take care 
of such things, so that we say, ‘ Nine and six is fifteen,’ 
while hardly thinking of the figures. 9 and 6 instantly 
suggest fifteen, just as A and B suggest C. Not so 
with this boy, however, no matter how hard he tried. 
So the teacher said: 

“*¢ Allen, you never hesitate when something is to be 
added to ten, do you? Well, then, run up your column 
turning everything into tens. Say you start with the 
figure 9, and the next one is 7. The first glance at 9 
tells you to find a 1, so as to make a 10, doesn’t it? 
Well, then, you'll think of the 7 as “1 and 6,” the 1 
will fly to the 9, and you’ll know instantly that 10 plus 
6 (otherwise 9 plus 7) make 16.’ If that isn’t plain to 
you, Dick, try it out.” 

“Why, Dad, it’s the very way I do it, myself! Tm 
always dividing numbers so as to get the tens out of 
them. I thought myself pretty smart for being so 
original.” 

“‘ Well, see if you’re smart enough to finish up your 
work in ten minutes,—bedtime is only 600 seconds 
away! ” 


XVITI 
HOW MUCH DO YOU SEE? 


draw a cat?” 
“ Certainly, I could draw a cat! ” 

“ Er—so that anyone would know what it was, 
Dad? ” 

‘‘ Anyone who could read would know. I always 
labelled my drawings. That served not only to identify 
the subject of my sketch, but also to indicate which 
way to hold the thing. I once did a landscape with a 
boulder and four tree stumps; and because I forgot to 
write the name at the bottom, some one turned it up- 
side down and thought it was a cow. I added a pair 
of horns and let it go at that. One way of ‘ changing 
the subject.’ ” 

“Then maybe I’m not so dumb! ” 

‘“ All of which is leading up to—what? ” 

“Well, Dad, my class is going to take up freehand 
drawing, and the old crank of a teacher gave us a talk 
as a Starter. He began by asking if we all had good 
eyesight. We said yes. ‘ Do you really see things,’ he 
went on, ‘so that they make a definite impression upon 
your brains, or do you merely look at them and come 
away with hazy recollections? Just as the lens of a 
camera projects a clear picture upon its film, so your 
eyes ought to register a well-defined picture upon your 
brains, and your young memories should keep such a 
mental picture from fading.’ How about it? ” 


70 


66 CE Dad, when you were a boy, could you 


HOW MUCH DO YOU SEE? 71 


“ And every one of you declared that you see things 
in every detail and remember all you see. Eh, Dick? ” 

“Of course we did! And we thought him a chump 
for asking such a question, too.” 

“T rather think you’re in luck to have him! What 
then? ” j 

“He said that was fine. For instance, every one of 
us had seen hundreds of cats—had watched them 
walking, running, climbing, playing, sleeping. So, 
without training as artists, we ought to be able to draw 
outlines of cats that one would recognize at a glance. 
We looked at one another, not so sure of ourselves, but 
grabbed our pencils and started in. Gee, what a mess 
we made of the job! We had to laugh, but he didn’t 
see anything funny in it at all. ‘Here’s an animal 
you’ve looked at practically every day since baby- 
hood; and yet not one of you knows the shape of its 
body, of its head, of its limbs, or has the faintest idea 
how its legs are attached. Now, here’s a plaster cast 
of a house. Draw that,’ he said.” 

“You all did better.” 

“Yes; but most of us made the windows bigger than 
the doors or put the chimney in the wrong place, or 
something. ‘Before you learn to draw,’ he said, 
‘you've got to learn to observe accurately—which is 
something few do, although it would be of enormous 
value to every one, regardless of art.’ ” 

“Dick, when you go to school tomorrow I wish you 
to go to that teacher and tell him your father’s very 
glad that you’re to have so sensible an instructor. 
Sometimes I think that half the trouble in this life 
comes from careless seeing, careless hearing, and care- 
less remembering. Every day persons get up in court 
and swear to lies that they believe the truth, because 


72 SAY, DAD! 


they didn’t see and hear what they think they saw and 
heard. At dinner, just now, what was the colour of 
your mother’s gown? Now, think! ” 

“T don’t have to, Dad. I know it was green.” 

“Wrong! J know it was brown. So you see—” 

(A merry laugh from the next room, and: “ pets it 
happens to be as blue as a summer sea! ’’) 

“‘ Say, Dad, you’d better come join our class! ” 

Well, aly that surprises me; but it only goes to 
show Hoey few of us are reliable witnesses: At college 
our class in psychology made an experiment along this 
line. A one-reel comedy that none of us had seen was 
thrown upon the screen. We were told to take mental 
notes of the action and to write out short continuities 
of it afterwards. The projection took fourteen min- 
utes. We were allowed an hour in which to set down 
what we had seen. Copies of the actual continuity 
were then distributed, and we checked up. The result 
was absurd! Not one of us had put in two-thirds of 
what his eyes had seen; most of us included bits of 
action not in the play at all; a round dozen got the end- 
ing all wrong; and five or six even flunked on the title! 

‘“‘ Get together a bunch of your young friends some 
night and have them answer such questions as, ‘ What 
are the designs and words on each side of a nickel? ’ 
‘What’s the colour of a certain building passed every 
day, and how many windows has it?’ ‘ How long is 
a postal card, or a dinner knife?’ ‘ Draw from mem- 
ory a robin, a grasshopper, a rose.’ ” 

“ Tl do that, Dad! Won’t you join us? ” 

“Not much, Dick! Maybe I’m getting a little 
too old,” 


XIX 
THOSE MEMORY SYSTEMS 


“Tf you need something worth that amount.” 
“This ad says it’s worth thousands of dollars 
to anyone who will use it.” 

“‘ Well, well, Dick, somebody must be very generous 
with his goods! What is it? ” 

“It’s Professor Buncomb’s Auto-Memorizer—War- 
ranted to Cure the Worst Case of Forgetfulness in Ten 
Days, or Money Refunded.” 

‘“‘ Ah, yes; I recognize an old acquaintance under a 
new name! And only five dollars—after lots of us, in 
our earlier days, gladly paid fifteen or twenty-five! 
Surely, mental culture will soon be obtainable at Mr. 
Woolworth’s emporiums. So, you have reached the age 
of failing memory, Dick? ” 

“Now, Dad, you’re laughing at me! When you 
studied history: could you remember when all the bat- 
tles and things took place? ”’ 

“‘ Only long enough to recite them; and so I neldi out 
the money I’d saved for a new suit, for Association of 
Ideas the True Memory Insurance, by Skinner Merlive, 
M.A.,—the letters, as I discovered too late, standing 
for Master of Artfulness. In order to test the book, 
my chum, Harry McKee, and I used its method to 
remember that the great battle of Salamis took place 
in 480 B.c. The idea was to link up the name, Salamis, 
with a chain of words leading to the date, 480 B. c.” 


73 


i O° Dad, can you spare me five dollars? ” 


74 SAY, DAD! 


“‘T don’t know what you mean, Dad.” 

“In this way: Salamis suggested the word, sala- 
mander ; which brought to mind, lzzard; which sounded 
like, lizzie; by which we meant a Ford, built for four, 
but which some persons use for eight—oh! And 4-8-0 
was the date we must remember. Great, wasn’t it? 
We thought so, and proceeded to connect all the events 
and dates we’d be expected to know in the next day’s 
examinations.” 

“‘ And you both got them all—” 

“Wrong! I’ve forgotten what I did with the rest, 
but Pll always remember the Salamis attempt. By the 
time I reached that question, I was pretty well confused 
by all that had preceded it; and all that Salamis made 
me think of was, salad. Now, salad, to me, always 
meant chicken salad, of which I was over-fond. 
Chicken naturally suggested chicks. ‘That sounded 
like six. So, confidently, I wrote the date, ‘ 600 B. c.’ ” 

‘“‘ Did your chum string ’em along the same way? ” 

‘“‘Of course not. Two brains seldom follow the same 
reasoning when working independently. Harry, as he 
confessed to me later, thought of salary, from Salamis. 
That suggested money—bills—food-bills—food—eats 
—aie. So he put down, ‘ 800 s. c.’—glad to be sure of 
that date, at least! ” 

“Then the whole idea is just bunk! ” 

“The idea is sound snough, for we do remember by 
associating one mental picture with another; but the 
wholesale claim that we can recall anything we’ve once 
linked up with a string of hap-hazard words is bunk, 
if you like. And, of course, the longer the string, the 
more liable you are to get away from the original 
words. Try it some time as a game, when a dozen of 
you are together. Start with some common word, and 


THOSE MEMORY SYSTEMS 75 


have each fellow write ten words linked together by 
association—each word suggesting the next. If you’re 
not miles apart at the end, I miss my guess! ” 

“That’ll be fun, Dad! It seems to me that any 
word could lead to any other one, if you took enough 
time at it.” 

“That may be so. Let’s try it. Give me two.” 

““ Well, say, sugar and buttons. Can you do it? ” 

“« Sugar—candy—ice cream—cold — winter — over- 
coat —- moths — butterflies — nets — fish — hooks — 
eyes—buttons! How’s that? ” 

“Fine and dandy, Dad! I’ve an idea,—give out a 
word, and offer a prize for the shortest list ending with 
a certain other word.” 

“That will make a very good game, and stir up your 
interest in synonyms; for the first word you think of 
may not be as near the final one as some other meaning 
practically the same thing. For example, if instead of 
linking ice cream with candy, my thought being ‘ des- 
sert,’ I had put ze, we might not have arrived at but- 
tons yet! Well, what about the Auto-Memorizer? ” 

‘“'You’ve kept me from wasting the money, Dad. 
Still, he offers to refund it if I’m not satisfied after 
ten days.” 

“‘ Indeed he doesn’t—merely to ‘ cure the worst case 
of forgetfulness,’ knowing very well that none of his 
victims can prove his case to be the worst. He didn’t 
forget that! ” 


XX 


SPEAKING IN PUBLIC 


ie HAT’S a boy to do when he’s scared stiff? ” 
‘That depends upon the stuff he’s made 


of, Dick.” 

“‘T mean, what should he do when he knows he’s 
going to be frightened to a jelly? ” 

“Look the situation squarely in the eye and say, 
‘ Maybe you can make me quake a bit, you old spook, 
but you can’t make me run!’ What’s the trouble? ” 

‘““Next month my class begins speaking in chapel, 
and I’m the first fellow up. Wow, but I dread it! 
You can’t imagine, Dad! ” 

“‘T can do more than imagine—I can remember. 
For weeks, Mrs. Page had drilled me to recite a poem 
called The Sentinel—incidentally reminding me at five- 
minute intervals to keep my head up and my stomach 
in. All this was in the empty chapel—but in miserable 
fancy I could see every seat filled with a grinning 
schoolmate, and I knew that on the fatal day I’d for- 
get my lines, fall off the platform and disgrace myself 
for life.” 

‘““ And when the day did come, I suppose, you didn’t 
mind it a bit, and—” 

“When the morning arrived, I filed in and took my 
seat with such a sinking sensation at the pit of my 
stomach and such a weakness about my knees, that I 
knew my end was near. My only hope was that I’d die 
before my name was called, instead of after. But no— 


76 


SPEAKING IN PUBLIC 77 


Dr. Perkins announced my subject and pronounced my 
name while I still caught choking breaths.” 

“‘ Did your knees knock together then? ” 

“T don’t know. From my waist down I had no feel- 
ing at all. This made it seem impossible to walk to the 
platform and mount the five steps at the side; and I 
recall my surprise at suddenly finding myself up there, 
facing the roomful I saw only as an enormous black 
splotch, while a horrible silence waited to be broken by 
my opening lines. 

‘“‘ At once the pleasant fact came to me that every 
line, every word of that rousing poem had deserted me. 
I tried to wet my stiff dry lips with a tongue that had 
turned to charcoal. I endeavoured to swallow the ten- 
nis ball that somehow had become lodged in my throat. 
My face was blazing, my hands were lumps of ice, and 
two dozen daggers—from the eyes of the scandalized 
faculty in the rear—stabbed my back.” 

“Oh, Dad! Then you really made a mess of it? ” 

“The next thing I knew, I was bowing to the audi- 
ence every member of which was clapping like a pack 
of exploding firecrackers, and walking back to my seat 
with legs and everything as usual. Though I couldn’t 
make it out at all, everyone acted as if I’d done well. 
The fellows next to me whispered, ‘ Immense! ’ and 
‘ Good stuff, old man! ’ and afterward a chap nailed me 
in the hall, and wanted to know why. I’d made believe 
I dreaded speaking when I could go through it like 
that? ” 

“Well, I won’t mind the shivers so much if they 
don’t show. I bet you felt mighty relieved, eh, Dad? ” 

“‘ T was in a daze about it all. I just couldn’t believe 
the fellows were not trying to let me down easily, until 
Mrs. Page assured me that I’d done well, as she had 


78 SAY, DAD! 


expected me to. So, Dick, the only way is to go right 
ahead and pay as little attention as possible to your 
own feelings. The more you think about your tremors 
and their effect upon your hearers, the more they’ll 
possess you.” 

“The fellows are all scared green, but they’re going 
around boasting that they’re not afraid, not much! ” 

“That sort of thing doesn’t get you anywhere. 
Don’t be afraid of admitting that you dread a thing if 
you do; just be afraid of trying to dodge it, if it ought 
to be met. The real heroes are the ones who, while 
fearing, carry on till the victory’s won.” 

‘All right, Dad, [ll shiver, but I'll deliver! ” 


THE FORKS OF THE ROAD 


Every hour of every day, 

Everyone must choose his way. 

One straight road on the right ts seen, 

One on the wrong—and there’s naught between. 
The right road often seems rough and steep, 
The wrong road even and smooth to keep; 
But the wrong one never is on the level, 

And gently slopes to its source, the devil. 

The right one’s sometimes so drear, I’ve found, 
That it’s best to keep the eyes off the ground— 
For above and ahead is a view sublime 

That cheers the heart on the toilsome climb. 
The wrong road’s bowered with blossoms gay, 
But they fade when you've travelled on a way; 
While the right, you'll find, as the days go by, 
Grows beautiful as it nears the sky. 

But from every depth and every height 

New roads branch off—to day or night; 

So each of us has to choose his way, 

Every hour of every day. 


XXI 
SOME QUEER CAT TALES 


* AY, Dad, are cats tame tigers? ” 
S “No; but they belong to the same family. 
Why? ” 

“T’ve got to write a composition on ‘ Cats,’—gee! 
And I thought you might be able to tell me something 
more interesting than that they catch mice and yowl 
on fences.” 

“That’s odd. I’ve just been reading something on 
the very subject. Probably you never heard the old 
Arab yarn to the effect that Noah was worried about 
the mice eating up his food. Asa result of his prayers, 
one of his lions sneezed out of his nostrils a cat—and 
the mice behaved.” 

*‘ Apple-sauce, Dad! He had only two mice on the 
Ark; so, if the cat had caught them we’d have none 
now, would we? ” 

‘I guess the cat just talked purr-suasively to them. 
Then, we know that the ancient cats spoke the same 
tongue as our modern tabbies; for, back in 1688 B. c., 
the cats pictured on Egyptian monuments are named 
‘Maou.’ They were larger in those days, and re- 
trieved game, like dogs. Herodotus, the father of his- 
tory—and one of the fathers of lies—tells us that the 
Thomas cats always killed their young, if possible, so 
that the Mamie cats could spend more time with them. 
He also states that cats often committed suicide by 
jumping into the fire; and that the family whose pussy 


79 


80 SAY, DAD! 


had done this always shaved off their eyebrows to 
advertise their sorrow.” 

“That’s a good one! ‘Tell me some more! ” 

“The Egyptians held cats as sacred, and housed 
them in temples, and made them into mummies when 
their nine lives were over. The goddess, Pasht, usually 
is pictured wearing a cat’s head. Memphis is said to 
have surrendered to Cambyses because he used cats 
as projectiles.” 

“‘ Something like ‘ raining cats and dogs,’ eh, Dad? ” 

“But in the Middle Ages, black cats, especially, 
were supposed to be evil. Witches had them as 
‘familiars.? Once upon a time a French peasant was 
cooking an omelette, while his black Tom watched 
with approval. Suddenly the animal cried, ‘ It’s done 
—turn it over!’ In his fright, the cook threw the hot 
omelette into the cat’s face. Next day, one of his 
neighbours—who was supposed to be a sorceress— 
appeared with a burned cheek.” 

“‘T believe it all, Dad! Any more cat-tales? ” 

‘‘ Well, there’s a Russian proverb that claims that if 
you don’t kill your cat before it’s seven years old, it 
will turn into a devil. It’s a fact that even brave men 
were afraid of them. We have it on good authority 
that Napoleon, resting in a palace just after the battle 
of Wagram, yelled for help at sight of a mouser. 

“In 1877, a society was founded in Belgium for the 

‘mental and moral improvement’ of cats. They had 
an idea that ae could be trained to take ule place of 
carrier-pigeons.” 

“Now, Dad! Want me expelled from school? ” 

vy They tied up thirty-seven cats in bags, and carted 
them twenty miles away. ‘Twenty-four hours after 
they were released, every cat was back home,—I 


SOME QUEER CAT TALES 81 


imagine with a wicked gleam in her green eyes. Cats, 
by the way, can no more see in the dark than you can; 
but they can see much better in the dusk. Now, here’s 
an odd thing that your teacher may look up and verify: 
Only thirty-four years ago, a cat cemetery was discov- 
ered about one hundred miles from Cairo. Literally, 
hundreds of thousands of mummified cats were dug 
up, and used by the farmers of that region for fer- 
tilizer. So great was the supply, that 180,000 of them, 
so the account states, were sold at public auction in 
Liverpool.” 

“Thank you, Dad. Guess I’d better go right at my 
composition while all this dope is fresh. If I need any 
more, Ill plunge into the encyclopedia.” 

“You'll want to write something about the cat of 
today, Dick, as well as these historic yarns. You can 
say that most cats seem to care more for their home 
comforts than for their owners; though there are ex- 
ceptions to this rule. I never heard of a cat’s fighting 
for its master, as a dog will,—but what a protection a 
good old fighting Tom would make! Mention the 
bob-tailed cat of the Isle of Man, the Spanish tortoise- 
Shell, the Chartreuse blue-gray, the gentle Angora, the 
pendulous-eared Chinese, the red Russian, and the 
Madagascar variety with the twisted tail.”’ 

‘““Gee, Dad! I never knew the mollies were so im- 
portant. No wonder our Maltese Kerdudle puts on 
airs! ” 


XXIT 
ARE LIONS COWARDS? 


Are they? ” 

‘Who am I to decide, who have hunted only 
editors? They seldom run unless there’s a golf four- 
some waiting. Cowardly men usually show their 
yellow streak in their eyes. Have you ever noticed 
anything like that in the calm, fearless gaze of a lion, 
though he’s imprisoned in a steel cage and surrounded 
by a crowd of queer-looking uncertain bipeds? ” 

‘“‘J’ll say not! He looks like what they call him— 
the king of the forest. But this writer is an experi- 
enced lion-hunter, Dad. He ought to know.” 

‘‘ Perhaps lions are of as many qualities as are men, 
and he’s had the luck to run across the timid kind. 
Colonel Kane used to tell me of his encounters with 
lions in the East Indies. Some of them were not eager 
to fight, but he never called them cowardly. The 
colonel and two friends once started out with an ele- 
phant, and after a twenty-mile hunt came upon two 
lions and killed one. The other, having nothing to gain 
and everything to lose, quite sensibly retreated. They 
chased him till he stood at bay, calmly watching to see 
what they would do. When the elephant got too near 
for comfort, the lion sprang upon its head. In the 
excitement, the lion was wounded, and the big pachy- 
derm shook him off.” 

“‘T hope he got away then, Dad! ” 


82 


T ‘VE just been reading that lions are cowards. 


ARE LIONS COWARDS? 83 


“He did; but again he had to face them. This time 
he sprang on the elephant’s back, was wounded once 
more and once more shaken off. Kane followed on 
foot and killed him.” 

“‘Wasn’t the colonel ever attacked, Dad? ” 

‘Many a time. Once he saved his life by heroic 
self-control. He had kept on following a lion and 
shooting at him, while the big beast retreated with 
dignity, after every shot, looking back as though to 
say, ‘Ill leave you alone, little man, if you’ll do the 
same for me!’ Finally the old lion concluded that 
patience and long-suffering would do no good, and 
turned like a flash, breaking the gun and pinning the 
colonel to the ground. Now, the lion was wounded, 
and began crunching his enemy’s arm. In this dread- 
ful position, the colonel had the grit and the presence 
of mind to lie as though dead. The lion stopped gnaw- 
ing. Kane, summoning what strength he had left, 
called for help. Instantly the lion began chewing the 
arm again. Though in great pain, the hunter again 
played dead, and the lion lay quietly panting beside 
him. Minutes that seemed hours of horror passed. 
At last old Mr. Lion got to his feet with a deep sigh, 
and slowly walked away into the deeper forest. Kane 
fainted just as his friends came running up.” 

“Gee! I wouldn’t want to hunt an animal that 
acted as civilized as that—-would you, Dad? ” 

“‘T’ve always been able to enjoy myself, even in the 
wilds, Dick, without taking life. It’s always seemed 
to me that there must be two essentials to a square 
fight—a fairly equal chance of winning and a sensible 
reason for fighting at all. To creep with powerful 
explosives after some animal that means me no harm, 
and destroy it for the sake of meat or skin or antlers 


84 SAY, DAD! 


I don’t need—well, I know lots of ways to have more 
fun than that! The thought of going out to get one of 
those tigers that we read of carrying off children from 
some African village—that sort of hunt, no matter 
what the danger, makes the blood of any man tingle! 
All the messy part of it is forgotten in the thought of 
the necessity for the deed; just as we Americans, while 
hating and loathing and detesting everything to do with 
war, while determined to put a stop to such useless 
slaughter for all time, if that is humanly possible, feel 
the old savage blood boiling in our veins at the very 
thought of our country being invaded! Now, how do 
we know that the lion, instead of being a coward, is not 
just a creature of extraordinary common sense? ” 

‘You mean—” 

“That perhaps, if he could speak our language, he 
would say, ‘ Look here, Mr. Hunter, what’s the idea? 
You possess towns and cities where you may live in 
peace and security. I have only a cave in a forest 
filled with dangers. You have powerful instruments of 
death, worked by cunning mechanism. I have only my 
natural strength and sharper senses. I not only wish 
you no harm, but try never to interfere with you in any 
way; you pursue me as though I were your bitter 
enemy, and stalk about with noisy pride if a dozen of 
you corner me and take my life. You are the highest 
piece of creation, and I am but a jungle beast—tell 
me, if you please, the answer? ’ ” 

“Dad, I’m going to have a good talk with that old 
lion at the zoo. I see now why he looks at me the 
way he does! ” 


AXITT 
WHAT DOES FIGHTING PROVE? 


“What about it, Dick? ” 
“You said that fighting never settles right 
and wrong.” 

‘“‘ And you’ve been checking up on the assertion? ” 

‘“‘ T’ve been passing through a tough week, Dad! I 
haven’t let on at home, but school’s been misery to me. 
You see, it was this way: Last Thursday, Hen Riggs 
came to me with a composition he’d just finished, and 
asked if I’d look over the spelling before he copied it. 
‘Youw’re a crack speller,’ he said, ‘and I can’t spell for 
acent. Just take the thing home with you tonight, and 
mark any awful breaks I’ve made, and I won’t forget 
it. You know it doesn’t have to be handed in till 
Monday.’ 

“ Well, I couldn’t refuse without seeming mean, for 
I’m always ahead of him in spelling; but I didn’t 
want anything to do with him. We’ve never pulled 
together. He’s the kind of a fellow that lies about 
the time he’s spent on a lesson, bluffs through his 
recitations, and isn’t above copying another chap’s 
answers in examinations. He’d always been mean 
to me in little ways, and I thought it pretty nervy 
of him to ask a favour of me. But, as I say, there 
was nothing to do but agree; and I fixed up that 
composition on Sir Walter Raleigh, Thursday night, 
and gave it back to him Friday morning. When he 


85 


cf S AY, Dad, I guess you were right about fighting.” 


86 - SAY, DAD! 


thanked me, there was a foxy look in his eyes that I 
remembered later. 

“J finished copying my own composition, on The 
Game of Marbles, during a study period Friday after- 
noon, and left it in my desk for Monday, when it went 
to Miss Lester with those of all the class. We’d just 
assembled after recess, when Miss Lester came into 
the room looking very stern, and said, ‘ Henry Riggs, 
did you read Richard’s composition before writing your 
own?’ Of course, we all stared at one another in sur- 
prise. Hen said, ‘No, ma’am, I didn’t see it at all.’ 
Then she turned to me, and said, ‘ Richard, did you 
read Henry’s composition before finishing your own?’ 
I said that I had, and started to tell her why, but she 
wouldn’t listen. ‘ Not another word! ’ she ordered, her 
face very white. ‘It was plain that one of you had 
copied from the other—but I never expected Richard 
to be a cheat! ’” 

“That was tough, Dick! But your friendly enemy, 
Hen, couldn’t have had any difficulty in setting things 
straight. How did Miss Lester come to think you’d 
written on the same subject? What connection could 
there be between Sir Walter and marbles—putting 
everything else aside? ” 

““That’s what was mixed in my mind with the shame 
of being thought a cheat, Dad! I couldn’t make any- 
thing of it, and I wasn’t allowed to speak; only sit 
there with my heart beating so hard I choked, waiting 
for Hen to explain. When I saw he wasn’t going to— 
when I got onto the fact that he’d planned the whole 
thing to disgrace me—well, Dad, I had to grab my 
chair with both hands, to keep from going for him right 
there in the classroom! ” 

“Your self-control saved you from being ex- 


WHAT DOES FIGHTING PROVE? 87 


pelled, Dick. But tell me—how had Hen played his 
trick? ” 

“Why, first he’d fixed things so that I couldn’t deny 
having read his composition. Then, he’d sneaked my 
work out of my desk after I left, Friday, and copied 
it nearly word for word. The Raleigh stuff was only 
a blind; what he handed in was another Game of 
Marbles.” 

“I’m afraid that young man’s headed for prison.” 

“Well, for two hours I sat there fuming, and plan- 
ning what I’d do to Hen after school. I was almost 
crazy. Then, somehow I seemed to hear you saying 
that fighting never settles right and wrong. Just the 
same, I wanted to lick him. After school, he managed 
to get out before me, and must have run. I ran after 
him, and was almost up to him, when a big chap from 
one of the higher classes jumped out from behind a 
tree, and caught Hen by the shoulders. ‘ Here, you 
little rat,’ I heard him say, ‘ my small brother’s in your 
class, and he’s told me of the dirty trick you pulled on 
one of his friends! You’re running, like the little 
coward you are, for fear he’ll beat you up; but you’re 
too low for any real boy to fight. Now, look here—and 
quit blubbering! My brother saw you copying the 
other fellow’s composition. Do you want him to go to 
the Principal about it, and have you expelled; or will 
you come back with me to this Miss Somebody you 
lied to? Come along, then—and after this, fair 
play! 299 

“I’m glad it all turned out so nicely, Dick.” 

“So am I, Dad. Hen asked me to forget it, and I’m 
going to. But Miss Lester’s eyes get all swimmy every 
time she looks at me. Fighting him wouldn’t have 
settled things half as well.” 


XXIV 
WHAT ABOUT SLANG? 


ie AY, Dad, are you so terribly down on slang? ” 
‘““As a steady diet it nauseates me; as a bit 
of seasoning for wholesome English I tolerate 
it; as an occasional titbit, if nicely served, I some- 
times relish it. Why? ” 

‘“‘Our teacher in English grows pale and reaches for 
her salts at the sound of it; but some of the others 
smile at it, and even use it once in a while.” 

“You see, Dick, a good deal depends upon the kind 
of slang employed, the kind of person using it, and the 
occasion. Some slang words are distinctly vulgar. As 
none but vulgar persons say them, let’s leave them out 
of consideration. Most slang is just foolish, and is 
used by young folks who wish to appear exceedingly 
knowing, and up-to-date, and all that. A little bit of 
it is very apt, vivid and funny—until one hears it the 
second or third time.” 

“A fellow couldn’t spill a very nifty line of talk 
without it, Dad.” 

‘““T dare say. In ‘ spilling niftiness "—whatever that 
may imply—I should think it might be essential. 
During a recent ten-minute imprisonment in a sub- 
way car full of school children, I heard that differ- 
ent things were ‘the cat’s meow,’ ‘the rabbit’s 
ear-muffs,’ ‘the tiger’s tonsils,’ and ‘the alligator’s 
adenoids.’ These picturesque descriptions of parties, 
moving-pictures, and so on, left me cold and mystified 


88 


WHAT ABOUT SLANG? 89 


—though they occasioned mirth and satisfaction among 
the students.” 

“‘Didn’t you have any slang when you were a boy, 
Dad? ” 

“Yes. The perennial ‘bully,’ made popular by 
President Roosevelt, took its place with ‘ daisy’ and 
‘dandy ’ and ‘ out of sight.’ When someone was car- 
ried away by the exuberance of his verbosity, we 
thought it rather the thing to suggest that he ‘come 
off the roof.’ But even the silliest of us spoke a 
language more or less like our mother tongue. Stupid 
though it may seem to you, frankfurters were frank- 
furters then, and a ‘buck’ was a male deer instead 
of a dollar.” 

“‘ Well, I don’t see any harm in slang.” 

“Here is the real danger: But few persons, after 
half a lifetime of study and reading, speak and write 
correct and beautiful English. To do so ought to be 
the aim of everyone, of course. Slang not only spoils 
one’s English, but gradually spoils one’s taste,—just 
as devotion to ragtime and jazz will surely wean one 
away from much that is worth-while in music. 

“ An oddity of slang, I’ve noticed, is that slangers 
try to avoid the use of our definite “ Yes.” Bill 
Harris says that he owes his business success to that 
one word. When just out of public school, one day he 
found himself the twelfth in a line of boys applying 
for a position with the company that he now manages. 
Bill was downhearted as he looked at the eleven ahead 
of him. Surely one of them would get the job before 
his turn came. 

‘A pleasant young man had been sent out to ques- 
tion them—one whom they all felt at ease before. He 
smilingly asked the first boy’s name and age and so on, 


90 SAY, DAD! 


winding up with the question, ‘So you think you’d like 
to work for us? ’ 

‘“¢ Sure! ’ said the first boy, and was told to wait. 

‘““* And your name? ’ the second boy was asked; and 
finally came the same question, ‘ So you’d like to work 
for us?’ 

““* Tl say so! ’ he grinned, and sat down to wait. 

‘“<Tll tell the world! ’ was the third boy’s reply. 

““* You said it! ’ cried the next. 

“ * Yeah,’” yawned the next in line. 

‘“‘“ Hm-hm,’ mumbled the one behind him. 

“Yep! ” was the seventh’s response. 

““* Like a mice! ’ cockily chirped the next. 

“* Betcha life! ’ swaggered the ninth. 

‘“¢* 'You’re on! ’ was the style of number ten. 

“* T should smile! ’ laughed eleven—and Bill was up. 

“The young man looked at him for a moment, and 
then asked the last question first—‘ So you think you’d 
like to work for us, eh?’ And Bill said: 

oy YES. sir? 

““* You’re hired! ’ exclaimed the young man, losing 
his deliberate smile and putting out his hand. All the 
boys, including Bill, were astonished, you may believe. 
‘I don’t know your name, and I’m taking a chance on 
your experience and qualifications,’ went on the ques- 
tioner to Bill; ‘ but I do know that you’re the only boy 
here with sense and politeness enough to answer me in 
English! ’? ” 


WHAT ABOUT SLANG? 91 
THE WASTER 


When Dad went to school he was chums with Bill Brown, 
Whose father was said to own half of the town; 

Bill had an allowance he spent like the air, 

While Dad seldom had a lone nickel to spare. 


When Dad went to work at ten dollars a week, 

Bill Brown owned a car that whizzed by like a streak; 
While Bill as a spender attained the first rank, 

Dad opened a modest account at the bank. 


When Dad by hard thrift a wee cottage had got, 

Bill Brown owned a mansion, three cars and a yacht; 
Then Bill’s father died—and with painful surprise 
Bill found himself sunk in debt up to his eyes! 


He thought he could borrow, but no one would lend 
To one who had always done nothing but spend; 
He tried to get work, but all had distaste 

For one who had always done nothing but waste. 


So Dad took him on, just to help ’round the shop, 
And there he is yet and 1s likely to stop; 

And though he draws only the smallest of pay, 
He still finds his chances to throw tt away. 


You bet, long before I have grown to a man, 
I’m going to follow Dad’s sensible plan; 

And whether or not wealth is coming to me, 
I promise you one thing—no waster I'll be! 





III 


ABOUT THE HOUSE 


THAT KIND OF A BOY 


What kind of a man are you going to be 
When the trials of life try to get you— 

Your job seems too big for one fellow to swing, 
While a host of small worries beset you? 

Well, how do you take it when lessons are hard, 
And the questions seem put to annoy? 

For yow'll find that the man who can bear it and grin, 
Was that very same kind of a boy. 


What kind of a man are you going to be 
When your nearest friends try to persuade you 
That cheating’s all right if you're safe from the law, 
And that breaking your word won't degrade you? 
Well, how do you play when your side’s losing out, 
And the others mean tactics employ? 
For you'll find that the man who in business plays fatr, 
Was that very same kind of a boy. 


What kind of a man are you going to be 
In the mewm’ries of those who outlive you— 
What kind of a name are you going to leave, 
And what kind of repute will they give you? 
Well, how do your teachers and pals rate you now— 
And at home do you add grief or joy? 
For the man whom we love for his courage and cheer, 
Was that very same kind of a boy! 


XXV 
GETTING UP IN THE MORNING 


in the morning? ” 
‘‘Even as the doughboy who threatened to 
‘amputate the reveille ’ of the bugler! ” 

“‘ Gee, I’m glad of that! Then you can pity a chap 
like me, who has to be called two or three times 
every day.” 

“Not a bit of it. I pity your mother.” 

“ Didn’t your mother call you? ” 

“Just once; then, if there wasn’t a noise in my 
room, father called me.” 

*¢ And if you didn’t get up then? ” 

‘“‘T never tried that but once. I thought he’d intone 
‘Dick!’ again, and lay lazily listening. Instead, I 
heard his firm and heavy steps on the stair. Some- 
thing about his steady tread warned me to be up and 
doing, and he found me nervously trying to shove my 
legs into my coat sleeves. ‘So you are dressing? ” he 
said. ‘ Ye-e-es, sir!’ I replied. ‘I’m very glad,’ he 
said, and went down again. But his gladness was as 
nothing to mine, Dick; for he had brought up the 
pail of icy spring. water that always stood in the 
kitchen sink.” 

“OQ boy! My Dad’s got more of a heart than 
yours had.” | 

“I’m sure now that that pailful of cold water was 
a bluff, but I wasn’t taking any chances then.” 


95 


cf S AY, Dad, when a boy, did you hate to get up 


96 SAY, DAD! 


“And after a while you didn’t mind rising, I 
suppose.” 

‘“‘ After a while I became ashamed of making others 
call me. Now, there was one thing that I hated worse 
than getting up. That was'to be jarred out of sleep by 
the shrill ringing of an alarm clock. The sharp, in- 
sistent sound always seemed to tear my eardrums into 
shreds and set my nerves tingling till I wanted to 
scream like a frightened girl. But, rather than depend 
upon mother, I determined to endure this misery. So 
I bought the gentlest alarm-clock I could find and put 
it close to my bed, where I could grab it quickly and 
turn it off.” 

‘“‘ After that you had no trouble? ” 

“Except in getting up! For the instant that faint 
tinkle began I’d reach out, turn the catch, and go to 
sleep again. So I set my teeth and got the loudest, 
most maddening clock ever built. I fastened it to a 
shelf as far as possible from my bed. I wound up the 
alarm all the way—and it was guaranteed to ring like 
a house afire for six minutes. For hours I lay awake, 
that first night, imagining how I’d jump when the thing 
went off at seven the next morning. Finally I slept and 
dreamed of door-bells and telephones and ambulances 
and trolleys united in an awful din. 

“The next thing I knew I heard a single ‘ting.’ 
Just the clapper of the bell falling against its gong 
preparatory to splitting my ears and waking the whole 
neighbourhood. One frantic leap took me over the 
footboard, another sent me sprawling over a chair; 
but, trembling with eagerness, the third launched me 
within reach of that clock, and I managed to push the 
tiny lever just in time! ” 

“Wow! But, say, Dad, was that the wicked- 


GETTING UP IN THE MORNING 97 


looking thing that stands on your chiffonier now? If 
it is, you never set the alarm, for I’ve never heard it 
in my life.” 

‘“‘ And yet, Dick, it’s set every blessed night! For 
all these years I’ve had a standing bet with that old 
clock that after its single ting I'll turn it off before it 
can start its hullaballoo. So far I’ve always won. In 
fact, that dumb slave, my subconscious brain, has be- 
come so used to my beating the clock that for a long 
time he’s awakened me a minute or so before even the 
ting sounds. So I’m not sure I’m playing fair with the 
old clock, after all.” 

“Well, it’s a great scheme, and I'll try to get one 
just like it and run races with it mornings.” 

“Not much! You start with a baby one. If you 
missed the full-grown jazz-band kind once, your mother 
and I would have to go to a sanitarium till we calmed 
down! Some folks can wake when they like, just by 
putting their minds on it when going to bed—another 
case of training the slave brain. But, whatever wakes 
you, unless you have the hardihood to hop right out of 
bed and sfay out, you’re still in a fix. 

“TI never used to be fully awake until I reached the 
breakfast table; now the minute that demon clock is 
safely choked I do my daily dozen. This sends the 
blood racing through my veins and arteries, and I’m 
ready for a shower, a tasty meal, and the day’s work.” 

“Much obliged, Dad. ‘Tomorrow mother’ll find 
me up! ” 


XXVI 
BATHS AND SWIMS 


‘What do you mean, Dick—in a tumbler, in 
a tub, or under a boat? ” 

“Tn a tub. I’m always reading about small boys 
who try to skin out of taking a bath and have to be 
told to wash behind their ears. I never was like that. 
Were you? ” 

“No; but you and I were brought up to look upon 
bathing as a privilege and a pleasure. In your grand- 
father’s day the operation was something of an under- 
taking, and many seem to have considered it a trying 
ordeal. Saturday nights at the old homestead great 
wooden tubs were rolled out—one in the warm kitchen 
for mother, two in the adjoining woodshed for father 
and your uncle—and labouriously half filled with water 
from the well. Then pails of hot water from the big 
wash boiler were poured in to take off the chill, and 
with soft soap and scrubbing brushes they went to 
work.” 

‘Where were you, Dad? ” 

“Oh, I hadn’t come yet. By the time I did, father 
had moved to town and was the proud possessor of a 
real bathroom with an up-to-date tin tub and hot water 
always on tap. We must not be too critical of the old- 
timers, for it wasn’t until bathing became easy that 
folks acquired the habit of keeping clean instead of 
having a weekly clean-up party.” 


98 


S AY, Dad, were you ever afraid of water? ” 


‘ a 


BATHS AND SWIMS 99 


“ Boys must have been pretty uncomfortable by 
Friday! ” 

‘“‘ Ah, but those were the days of the ‘ old swimmin’ 
hole.’ Hand me that copy of Riley’s ‘ Neighbourly 
Poems.’ He sings: 


‘O, the old swimmin’ hole! In the long lazy days 

When the humdrum of school made so many 
runaways, 

How pleasant was the journey down the old 
dusty lane, 

Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all 
printed so plain 

You could tell by the dent of the heel and the 
sole 

They was lots o’ fun on hand at the old swim- 
min’ hole! 

But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in 
sorrow roll 

Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old 
swimmin’ hole! ’ 


Boys never objected to a swim, anywhere and under 
any conditions; but a bath—that savoured too much 
of commands and inspections and reprimands to be 
classed as fun.” 

‘“‘ Some people are queer about it, Dad. You know 
that Mr. Sales? Well, he’s always telling that he’s just 
had a bawth, as he calls it, or must hurry home to take 
one. How does he get that way? Who cares? ” 

“T’m always a little suspicious of his kind, Dick. 
They remind me of a man named Dermiss, who was 
forever referring to his honesty. He’d tell you, at 
great length, how he’d climbed over a trolley full of 
passengers in order to pay his nickel to a careless con- 
ductor. He’d make you miss your train while he went 


100 SAY, DAD! 


into details of how he discovered an error of two cents 
in his income tax and how he’d worried for fear he’d 
die or something before he could get to the tax office 
with it next morning. ‘Time after time I’ve felt his 
nervous hands on my shoulder and turned to look into 
his anxious eyes and hear him say: ‘ Tell me, old man, 
did I pay back that quarter you loaned me? You re- 
member—while we were at the Lake, a year ago. Did 
I? You're positive? Well, I thought I had, but wasn’t 
sure. A thing like that worries me, don’t you know. 
Maybe I’m too fussy about such things. I dare say I 
am. But I’m built that way.’ ” 

“Huh! I bet I know the rest! ” 

“He was caught robbing the poor boxes in a church. 
You see, Dick, it isn’t natural for an inherently honest 
man to think much about his honesty—let alone talk 
about it. He just takes it for granted and expects 
others to do the same. You don’t think of going about 
telling your friends that you never stone dogs or tip 
over baby carriages. If you did keep assuring them 
of it, they’d keep their eyes on you! 

“To these persons who dwell so persistently upon 
their bathing habits, keeping clean must seem a rather 
remarkable accomplishment. They expect you to think 
more of them when you know how nice they are. 

“““ My first husbin,’ said old Tabatha Trott, ‘ was 
too plumb dandified fer any use. Jes’ as often as Sun- 
day’d come around that man’d hev his weekly shave, 
whether he went to church or not! ’ And every one’s 
heard of the little girl who was told to be sure to wash 
her face and hands because the minister might call. 
With the assurance of propounding a poser, she asked: 
‘ Well, but suppose he doesn’t come? ’ ” 


XXVIT 
MAKING THE HAIR BEHAVE 


men? ” 
‘““Haven’t you heard that baldness is the 
result of a super-active brain, Dick? ” 

“The bald-heads say so, of course. What I’m try- 
ing to get at is, do you keep your hair by doing special 
stunts with it? My physiology teacher says we ought 
to take good care of our hair while we’re young, so as 
to have some when we're old.”’ 

“That’s sound advice, although it’s claimed that 
early baldness, or the lack of it, is inherited. No, I 
don’t perform any peculiar rites with my scalp. I treat 
it as I would a lawn that I particularly cared about 
preserving. That’s all.” 

‘“* But hair doesn’t grow like grass, Dad! ” 

“The individual hairs are more like onions. But as 
onions are grown two inches apart in the row, while 
the rows are a foot apart, grass is the better simile. 
Now, what must you do to keep a good lawn, Dick? ” 

Pub tr. 

“Frequently. So weekly visits to the barber will 
stimulate the growth of your hair, as well as keep you 
looking cleanly about the neck and ears. Then, just 
as careful raking stirs up the soil and helps the grass to 
grow, gentle combing stirs up the flow of blood beneath 
the scalp and so invigorates the hair. Brushing doesn’t 
reach the scalp unless the hair is very thin.” 


101 


i S AY, Dad, why don’t you get bald like other 


102 SAY, DAD! 


“ But brushing is good, isn’t it? ” 

“ Invaluable. Brush long and brush often. It in- 
vigorates the hair, helps to clean it, and makes it glossy. 
The winds are the lawn’s ’air-brushes.” 

‘“¢ And shampoos, Dad? ” 

“Now that fashion makes us glue down our locks 
with oil or ointment, and this sticky stuff is collecting 
dust all day, a weekly shampoo is a necessity.” 

“‘ What’s the best thing to use, Dad? ” 

‘“‘ Pure soap or one of the standard emulsions. Wet 
your head thoroughly with warm water, apply the 
cleanser, then get busy with your eight fingers and two 
thumbs, and work the suds and bubbles around the 
roots of every hair until every particle of dust is ready 
to be rinsed off. Two warm rinsings, followed by a cold 
one, remember. Give your head a vigorous rubbing 
with a thick towel, which will partially dry it. Then 
run your fingers through your hair until it stands up 
like that of the Wild Man of Borneo, and let it dry. 
When it must be good and lie down in the hideous pre- 
vailing style, work into it your favourite stickum and 
comb and brush it into place. A light application of 
water over the oiled hair, so the movie folk assure me, 
will impart that patent-leather finish so cherished by 
screen-heroes and their adorers.” 

“Thanks, Dad. Is that all? ” 

‘““ Keep your combs and brushes clean with warm 
water and borax or ammonia. Sleep with tousled hair.” 

‘“‘ What’s the big idea? ” 

“So that the air can get at it. What would become 
of our lawn, if we kept the grass pressed down to the 
soil all the time? ” 

“IT see,—the lawn would soon get bald! Wait a 
minute, I want to ask you something else. The other 


MAKING THE HAIR BEHAVE 103 


day mother said to you, ‘ That was just like Timmy’s 
hair-cut.’ What did she mean? ” 

‘“‘ Oh, she referred to a ridiculous yarn her old nurse 
used to tell—in this manner: ‘ Ivery day when Timmy 
the butcher’d pass, Katy Nolan’d call out, ‘‘ Two pound 
o’ liver! ” “ Yis’m,” he’d say. “ An’ all in wan piece! ” 
she’d yell. Now, Katy fell in love wid Timmy ’cause 
av his thick curly hair—she havin’ on’y enough fer a 
hickory nut at the back av her neck. So, when he 
axed her, she said yis in a hurry—“ but sure an’ I’ve 
no dress fit fer the weddin’, atall, atall! ” ‘I'll be 
after buyin’ yer tin yards av white silk,” says Timmy, 
grand-like. “ Yer a man after me own heart,” cries 
Katy—“ an’ be sure an’ buy it all in wan piece! ” 
“‘ Like the liver,” says he. 

“Well, after wan week av marriage, he finds her 
cryin’ ’cause iverywan’s sayin’ Timmy has all the hair 
in the fam’ly! “Ill be after havin’ me head shaved,” 
says he, bravely. An’, sure enough, when he comes 
home he’s as bald as a neg. But his courage had took 
a bit av a slump after wan look in the barber’s glass, 
tis true, an’ out av his pocket what does Katy spy but 
a curly wig hangin’. “ And’ it’s throwin’ away yer 
own hair an’ buyin’ false! ” cries Katy, her Irish blood 
risin’ fast. ‘‘ Niver a bit,” answers the rogue; “ ’tis me 
own I had took off all in wan piece, macushla! ”’ ” 


AXXVITI 


SHOES AND STOCKINGS 


shoes? ” 
“Well, the more they’re worn out, the more 
they’re worn-out.” 

“Very good, Dad—but I’m not after wit, but 
wisdom.” 

“Goodness! Why this sudden ambition? ” 

“1’m not fooling, Dad. This is awfully important 
to me. Maybe you don’t know that mother’s always 
said I was the hardest boy on shoes and stockings that 
she ever came across.” 

“On the other hand, maybe I do know it.” 

“Well, then; but you don’t know what she’s done 
about it. From now on I’m to buy my own shoes and 
stockings, out of my allowance—which mother says 
you'll increase, on that account.”’ 

“T will, gladly. Now what? ” 

‘Well, I want ’em to last as long as possible, and 
mother said—” 

“T understand. First of all, be sure you buy three 
qualities in a shoe—comfort, good leather and shapeli- 
ness. Without the first, you’ll be in torture. Without 
the second, you’ll be out of pocket. Without the last, 
you'll look like a clodhopper. To insure all this, deal 
with a concern that values its reputation more than it 
does the few dollars you spend with them. Next, good 
shoes are worth good care.” 


104 


‘s Gi Dad, will you tell me something about 


SHOES AND STOCKINGS 105 


‘“ There’s where you can help me most.” | 

‘Save money and gain comfort by never having less 
than two pairs of every-day shoes on hand—or on foot. 
T’ve found that two pairs, worn alternate days, will last 
as long as three pairs bought one at a time. Although 
they may not seem so, shoes are always damp when you 
take them off. Keep their trees in them next day, and 
wear another pair. Also, get a good paste, and use it 
every day. Never let the leather get dry, and it will 
almost never crack. Wear rubber heels, and renew 
them if they wear unevenly. They save the jar on the 
spine, they last twice as long as leather ones, and you 
won’t annoy people like your Dad, who hates to hear 
folks go clicking along the sidewalks! ” 

‘* All right—now about stockings. I know enough to 
buy a kind with double heels and toes, and all that. 
Must I change them every day? ” 

“T should Zope so! And they’ll give you double 
wear if you'll wash them out when you take them off. 
Don’t scowl,—it’s a little thing to do, and a fine habit 
to form. Just fill your basin with warm water, douse 
the stockings in, soap them well, rub them together a 
bit, dipping and squeezing them several times, wring 
them out, rinse them in clean water, wring again, and 
hang them where they’ll dry.” 

“Tl do it if you say so, Dad, but—” 

“Start with half a dozen pairs, and take care of 
them in this way for a month. Then, unless you find 
that they have lasted twice as long as stockings ever 
lasted you before, Ill buy you the next box. How’s 
that? ” 

“That’s immense, Dad! You're on! ” 

“This little operation won’t take more than three 
minutes, Dick; and, when you come to think of it, it’s 


106 SAY, DAD! 


a lot cleanlier habit than stuffing your soiled and moist 
stockings into the hamper or a laundry-bag, isn’t it? 
If more persons thought about this, more would adopt 
the nicer way. Of course, there are folks who don’t 
mind going to bed with soiled and moist feet—so we 
can’t expect them to give much thought to their stock- 
ings. Also, speaking of feet, bathing them in hot water 
makes them so tender that any shoes will be painful. 
Cold or lukewarm water containing a little salt is the 
thing. Now are you all set, Dick? ” 

““T guess so, Dad. What about foot-powders? ” 

“‘'They’re an excellent thing to shake into the shoes 
and rub into the soles of the feet, especially when 
you’re going for a long hike on a hot day. Soldiers on 
the march use talc when they can get it, and soap when 
they can’t. Old Uncle Eli, up on the farm, used to 
anoint his feet with soft soap before breaking in a new 
pair of leather boots. For all that, the first week was 
torture to him. ‘On’y hev two sizes to the store,’ he 
used to say, ‘an’ neither one on ’em fits me. Big size 
blisters me with rubbin’, an’ small size burns me up 
with squeezin’. Ain’t had no comfort sense I went 
barefut, nohow! ’ 

“The only other advice I can give you, Dick, is 
what Cohen gave to his boy, Izzy: ‘ Take longer steps, 
Izzy, andt you don’t wear out your new shoes so 
fast! ’” 


XXIX 
TRAINING AN UNSEEN SLAVE 


about my room! ” 
“What about it, Dick? ” 

“Well, about its always being sort of upset.’ 

2) REN ie 

“Why, yes, I suppose it is, Dad, but—” 

‘Maybe you like the looks of it that way.” 

“Oh, no—TI like it all spick and span, with every- 
thing in order, the way mother fixes it, but—” 

“You keep forgetting—is that it? ” 

“ Well, it’s my clothes that cause most of the trouble. 
I’m always being scolded for leaving them around the 
room. Now, it stands to reason that when a boy comes 
in late from a ball game and has only a few minutes to 
wash up and get into another suit, he isn’t likely to 
dawdle all over the room picking up things and stowing 
’em away, is he? I always mean to put things to rights 
before I go to bed.” 

“Of course you do. But when you come up tired 
and sleepy and remember that you must get up extra 
early and do that geometry, your coat goes in a heap 
on one chair, your trousers slide off of another—” 

“Sure! And in the morning it’s cut and run or be 
blown up for being late for breakfast. What’s the 
answer? ” | 

“Have you learned about that dumb but obedient 
servant each of us has, called the Subconscious Brain? 


107 


y S AY, Dad, I’m awfully tired of being scolded 


108 SAY, DAD! 


I mention him to you every once in a while. He knows 
neither right nor wrong, but can be depended upon to 
obey orders implicitly. Train him to do a thing, and 
he’ll relieve you of even thinking about it. Make him 
take care of your clothes, that’s all.” 

“ But Dad—” 

‘As you may know, I have a bar across the back of 
my closet, and hanging upon it a coat-hanger and a 
pants-hanger for each of my suits. On a low shelf are 
trees for every pair of shoes. Ona high one, space for 
hats and caps. As I slide out of a coat, little old Sub- 
conscious puts it on its hanger, and so with everything 
I wear. When I’m undressed and dressed again, my 
room is as neat as a pin, and my things are unwrinkled 
and where I could find them in the dark.” 

“‘ But it’s you who did it, Dad.” 

“ Without wasting a second and without conscious 
thought. It took two weeks to train that unseen slave 
of mine, but for over fifteen years he’s kept my room 
and my clothes in order and, incidentally, saved me a 
lot of money. In other words, it takes no longer to put 
things away than to throw them away; and the habit 
of orderliness and neatness is worth a million times 
more than it costs.” 

‘“‘T can see that, Dad, and thanks for the tip. Ill get 
busy with that silent slave of mine and drill him off his 
feet. Don’t let on to mother about this, please. I want 
the satisfaction of hearing her gasp when she finds my 
room looking like something else than a rummage sale.” 

“Don’t be discouraged if your slave is a little slow 
at first, Dick. You’ve got to show him you’re in 
earnest.” 

“‘ He'll find I am, believe me! I'll teach him who’s 
master around my quarters! ” 


XXX 
GOING TO THE DENTIST’S 


e AY, Dad, don’t you think I’m old enough to 
S make my own engagements? ” 
“‘ Perhaps you’re old enough, Dick.” 

“Well, what do you mean? ” 

“ Are you wise enough? ” 

“Oh, you heard my argument with Mother, Dad! 
Anyhow, it seems to me I ought to know when to go to 
the dentist’s, without mother making an appointment 
for me.” 

“You did know—but you didn’t go. The time was 
when you felt the first twinge in that tooth of yours. 
You say you thought it would go away and not amount 
to anything. But teeth, my boy, are not tempera- 
mental; they never ache without reason. Mike Molar 
or Billy Bicuspid never says to himself, ‘ Ho-hum, this 
is a dull life—guess I’ll throb for a change!’ But, 
“There’s a little bit of a cavity forming in me, and 
unless I send a painful message to my owner it will 
soon be big,—here goes to wake him up! ’ ” 

“In that case, Dad, Charlie Canine ought to have 
made me jump long ago,—for my tongue seems to feel 
a hole as big as my fist! ” 

“Tongue-tips are very good at estimating tastes 
and temperatures, but rather poor at measurements. 
If the cavity were as large as it feels, you wouldn’t 
be so eager to postpone your call upon Dr. Fillem. 
Why are you? ” 

109 


110 SAY, DAD! 


“Because I hate to suffer, of course! Did anyone 
ever want to go? ” 

“Yes, indeed. I do,—and for the same reason you 
give for staying away—lI hate to suffer.” 

“But doesn’t he hurt you with all those little steel 
dinguses, and that old driller that goes buzz-buzz? ” 

“A little; but not a hundredth part as much as he 
prevents my being tortured by a neglected tooth. I 
know what it means to be far away from dentists, and 
to walk the floor all night, and night after night, with 
the pain imps boring into my jaw with white-hot drills, 
till every nerve in my face and head and throat was a 
separate current of anguish. When I got back to 
civilization, where science and skill were ready to re- 
move the decay and repair the damage, and let me 
know again the joy of possessing thirty-two teeth that 
didn’t ache,—believe me, Dick, my fear of Dr. Fillem’s 
chair had vanished forever! ” 

“Wow! I hope Ill never have to go through that! ” 

“You won’t, if you’ll just keep in mind the old adage 
that prevention is better than cure. Clean your teeth 
night and morning, at least. Oftener than that use a 
good mouth-wash. It will penetrate where bristles fail 
to reach. Ask Dr. Fillem to send you an appointment- 
card every six months, so that he can look you over and 
head off anything that’s threatening. As for the little 
pain one may have to endure under treatment today— 
ask Grandpa about old-time dentistry! ” 

‘Say, Dad, Mother was right, as usual. Guess I’ve 
been a chump to duck the buzz-buzz so long. This 
idea of keeping my teeth O. K. sounds good to me. 
Did you go to the dentist’s much when you were a 
boy? ” 

“Tt seemed pretty often then. Dr. Smith was a 


Eee 


GOING TO THE DENTIST’S 111 


funny old fellow, slow as cold molasses and full of 
mannerisms. Often he’d keep me waiting for three or 
four hours in his parlour, where I read and re-read 
magazines half as old as I was. That’s one joke the 
funny men didn’t make up. Finally an assistant smell- 
ing like a chemist’s shop would solemnly beckon me 
into one of the operating rooms. I’d climb up into the 
big chair, and look askance at the drills and clamps 
and bits of crumpled gold-leaf. Maybe I’d sit there 
for another half-hour, while the doctor talked at the 
door with another patient. 

“ At last the easy-going old man would examine my 
teeth, put my head a trifle lower, put something that 
felt like a young stair-pad into one of my cheeks, 
puncture a large sheet of rubber and press it over the 
aching tooth. When he had tied a piece of strong 
sewing-silk about the offending member, and had 
drawn the ends up over my face for the assistant to 
hold, he’d always ask: 

“¢* How’s your father, Dun?’ 

“* Hoofp zore rarr, sockoo,’ I’d mumble under the 
rubber, meaning, ‘ He’s all right, thank you.’ 

*““* That’s too bad,’ he’d say. ‘Sciatica’s a terrible 
affliction. Has he had it long?’ ” 


XXXT 


ANSWERING THAT LETTER 


answer letters? ” | 
“ Haven’t you replied to Aunt Mary’s let- 
ter yet?” 

“Now, Dad, just listen! Almost every night since 
it came, I’ve sat down with pen and ink and paper, 
and tried my hardest to make up an answer, but it’s 
been no use.” 

‘“‘ What’s the trouble, Dick? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I start off all right,—‘ Dear 
Aunt Mary: I received your kind letter and meant to 
write to you right away, but—’ Then I’m stuck! ” 

“Go on and tell her why you haven’t written: 
That’s simple enough.” 

“<«Simple’? Suppose I went on: ‘—I’m such a 
bonehead that I can’t find anything to say.’ Just 
suppose! ” 

“The dear lady would laugh herself into hysterics. 
And she’d admire your frankness and _ originality. 
Now, Dick, see here! The idea that answering a letter 
is something to be dreaded and postponed is all non- 
sense. Long ago, when ‘ polite correspondence,’ as it 
was called, was considered an art, and people prided 
themselves on using long words strung into stilted 
sentences—when it was thought admirable to sprinkle 
each paragraph with French and Latin quotations—a 
boy with a letter to write might have been excused for 


112 


«< S AY, Dad, when you were a boy did you hate to 





ANSWERING THAT LETTER 113 


running away and becoming a pirate on the Spanish 
Main. But today, he need know only how to read 
and write.” 

“‘ That’s easy to say, Dad! ” 

‘“‘What’s easily said is easily read. Tell me—isn’t 
writing a mere substitute for speech? Well, then, if 
Aunt Mary came in this minute, would you find it diffi- 
cult to talk to her? I thought not. You two chattered 
by the hour the last time she visited us. Get the 
point? Just talk to her on paper, and forget all about 
the literary end of it. I have it! Make believe you 
have her on the phone, this minute, and I’ll take down 
what you say. Shoot! ” 

‘““ Rr—er—hello, Aunt Mary! Yes, this is Dick! 
Say, I couldn’t seem to write you much of a letter, 
somehow, so I’ve called you up. How are all the folks? 
Dad and Ma are well and send their love. When are 
you coming to see us again? We had stacks of good 
times together, didn’t we? Remember that time we 
went to the movies, and a fat man came in in the dark 
and sat on me, and said, ‘ Excuse me, madam! I can’t 
tee a shing!’? The other night—” 

“ Ring off, young man—you’ve proved my conten- 
tion. Here’s a good beginning for your letter. Go 
right on in that conversational tone, just as though you 
were talking to her, and she will get such a letter as 
few of us are privileged to receive. When a letter 
comes to me couched in the stiff phraseology that once 
was in vogue—‘ Yours of the third inst. received and 
contents noted,’ and all that—I always wire back, 
‘What ails you, old hark-from-the-tombs? Can’t 
you write to me like a human being, instead of a 
seventeenth-century copybook? Are you dead, or do 
you think J am?’” 


114 SAY, DAD! 


“Much obliged, Dad. Letters won’t scare me 
after this! ” 

“T hope not. Why common ordinary folk with 
plenty of hard sense, who never think of putting on 
airs when they meet, imagine they must write letters 
without a drop of warm blood, I never could under- 
stand. In your grandfather’s day, they didn’t even 
call it writing letters—it was, ‘ inditing epistles,’ if you 
please. Some time I'll show you a few of the yellow 
sheets with their faded writing that have come down 
to me; and you'll agree that Cicero’s Orations are not 
the only lines hard to understand. Wonderful people 
lived in those old days, and we seem to have laid aside 
many of their virtues; but their flowery language and 
their delight in beating about the bush seem very silly 
in these unpoetic straight-from-the-shoulder times. 

“Did I ever tell you about a negro coachman we 
once had, named Jefferson? He was a wonder with 
horses, but otherwise very ignorant. He could count 
only to ten, and never was able to learn the alphabet. 
One day he came to me, asking for a holiday the next 
week, so as to go fishing with a friend, Wash, who lived 
in a distant town. I said ‘ All right.’ Well, would I 
write to Wash for him, asking if he’d spend Friday 
with him? I did so, but asked if Wash could read? 
Oh, yes, indeed; and he could write ‘grand!’ A few 
days later, I read this note from Wash: 

“* Tt is with abundant gratification that I acquiesce 
in your most amiable proposal to devote Friday to 
piscatorial enjoyment. Anticipate my advent at dawn.’ 

‘“** Dat nigger shu kin write! ’ exclaimed Jeff. ‘ But 
wy di’n dat fool boy git ter tell me does he come 
fishin’?’” 


XXXIT 
WHAT GOOD IS A DIARY? 


*“CONAY, Dad, does Uncle Frank think I’m a boob? ” 

S “T hope not, Dick. What’s up now? ” 

‘* He sent me a dzary for my birthday! ” 

“‘ And diaries are intended for boobs? ” 

“Well, J don’t intend to fill the thing with heart 
throbs and all that sort of guff! I think they’re silly.” 

“Diaries are like their writers. Silly persons may 
be expected to write silly diaries. But a brainy fellow 
like you—” | 

“Now you’re kidding, Dad! I forgot that you keep 
one. What good are they, really, now? ” 

“Well, mine serves me in three ways. First, it 
keeps a record of letters I receive, persons who call, 
books read, work accomplished. Often I’m very glad 
to look back and discover exactly how and when some- 
thing occurred. Seems to me you were fretting a good 
bit just before last Christmas because you couldn’t 
remember whether you had given some one a certain 
book the year before and whether some one else was 
due for a substantial gift or just a card.” 

“ That’s so. I was in the dickens of a pickle. A 
diary would be useful for that sort of thing. What 
else, Dad? ” 

“Besides being a record, I make it a reminder. 
Before starting a new one, I make notes against all 
important dates. For instance, ‘June 7, Dick’s 
birthday. July 4, holiday. August 15, pay life in- 

115 


116 SAY, DAD! 


surance. September 21, send copy promised Jones,’ 
and so on.” 

“Each night you just flip over the pages ahead and 
know exactly what’s coming. That’s immense! I 
can keep track of all the exams at school, all the 
athletic meets, when I must hand in essays, and 
everything. I never knew diaries were for that sort 
of thing.” 

“A diary, though, can be something more than a 
record of past events and a reminder of coming ones. 

“The days slip by so fast, one running into another, 
that all of us, young and old, must wonder if we really 
did much in them or got much out of them. What did 
you do with the twenty-four hours that flew past two 
weeks ago, or four, or eight? You don’t know. They 
were swallowed up in that half-forgotten time we call 
the past—that’s all. For this very reason I’ve found 
it a good habit to sit down alone at the end of each day 
and ask myself: ‘ What have you done since last night? 
Anything that helped to make life a little easier or a 
little cheerier for somebody? ’ 

“Then the little blank page seems to say: ‘ Look 
here, old man, are you being square with me? Here 
I’ve been waiting ever since the first of the year for a 
few pleasant words to be written on me. Each day the 
writing has come one page nearer to me, and this week 
I’ve been all of a flutter with excitement. Some of the 
other pages have been boasting what interesting sen- 
tences they bear; and here you sit nibbling your pen, 
as though you intend leaving me as blank as I was 
born! You say you mean to do better tomorrow? 
How does that help me? As long as the binding holds 
together, I’ve got to be surrounded by sneering leaves 
—all because you’re going to leave me blank! ’ 


WHAT GOOD IS A DIARY? 117 


“I tell you, Dick, that sort of thing gets one going 
the next day! ” 

“IT should think so! Gee, I’m going to try to side- 
step any of that kind of talk! I was going to write 
tonight, as a starter; but I guess I’d better wait till 
tomorrow. I haven’t done any one any good today.” 

“You might go on that forgotten errand for mother.” 

“ That’s so—I did forget, and I will. Say, Dad, my 
diary’s turning out to be a help even before I’ve 
started it? ” 


WE'D BETTER LISTEN 


Asked Grandpa what conscience is— 
What you spose he said? 

“ Somethin’ like the old *larm-clock 
Gets me out of bed! 

Sort of wakes a fellow up, 
Stands him on his toes— 

Makes him do more than just dream 
As through life he goes. 


“But,” said he, “when conscience speaks, 
Answer with a snap! 
Just as when the old clock rings, 
Take another nap 
And the next thing that you know 
Half the day has sped; 
Hesitate *twixt right and wrong, 
And yow’re lost!” he said. 


Set me thinkin’, there in school, 
That we'd better listen 

When our conscience whispers, or 
Some day we'll be missin’ ; 

Guess I'll do my jography 
And that long addition 

’Fore my conscience lets me sleep— 
Was a-goin’ fishin’! 


XXXITI 
MEETING STRANGERS 


to meet strangers? ” 
‘“‘ You don’t mean young folks, Dick? ” 

‘““No; grown-ups who looked you up and down as 
if you were something from the zoo and said: ‘ So this 
is Richard I’ve heard so much about! Yourre tall like 
your father, aren’t your But you’ve got your mother’s 
eyes, and you blush just as she did when we were 
schoolmates. Now come and sit by me and tell me all 
about yourself. Do you love to study?’ ” 

“They were the terrors of my kidhood, Dick. But 
by the time I was your age I’d learned how to handle 
them.” 

“Then, Dad, please put me on! Ma says I’ve got to 
show up tonight when the Moppers come, and I’d 
rather take an exam in English literature—the thing I 


Se Dad, when you were a boy, did you hate 


know least about in the whole world. I’ve seen this — 


couple at a distance, and that’s as close as I care to get 
to ’em. The Captain’s a snappy little chap with a 
moustache like red toothpicks and eyes like gimlets; 
his wife’s big and fat and mushy, and just the kind to 
call me a ‘ sweet boy,’ and how she does adore young 
people, and won’t I give her just one teeny-weeny 
kiss? Ugh! ” 

‘Well, your long-distance estimate of that pair 
might be worse, but forewarned is forearmed, and Ill 
tell you their vulnerable points. The Captain, in spite 


118 


MEETING STRANGERS 119 


of his snappy manner, is easily handled. Before he 
has a chance to bite you—and he usually takes it out 
in barking—look him straight in the face and say: 
‘Captain Moppers, didn’t you lead the Marines up 
Hill 305?’ Then youre through. Just ask that, and 
you won’t have to utter another syllable for two hours. 
I’m not certain of the number of the hill, but he can 
set you right on that. The important thing is to get 
him going, then sit back and play audience.” 

“‘ But, say, Dad, he did lead ’em, didn’t he? ” 

“He was under fire, at any rate.” 

“Then it ought to be interesting, Dad! ” 

“‘ Assuredly. I’ve heard him tell that story for five 
or Six years, and it’s more interesting with each recital. 
The farther away from the war the Captain gets, the 
more exciting details he seems to recall. So don’t 
worry about meeting him.” 

“ But Mrs. Moppers, Dad? ” 

“Well, let me think what she’s particularly inter- 
ested in. Something I associate with the Chinese. 
Missions—chop suey—chow mein! Now I have it! 
Chow puppies. She’s daft on the subject. Her Puff 
Ball Princess took a blue ribbon at the last bench show. 
Mention that, and you're safe.” 

“Thanks, Dad. Then the idea is to find out 
what people are interested in and let them do the 
talking? ” 

‘¢ Precisely—and here’s the reason: Nine persons out 
of ten are principally concerned with themselves. They 
have little more than mild curiosity about others, so 
are quickly bored by what you and I have done or 
hope to do. Of course this is natural; our own lives 
are not only the things we know the most about, but 
what we must be concerned with every hour of the day 


120 SAY, DAD! 


in order to live at all. We ought to be interested in 
others—but bores are bores, for all that.” 

“But, when I can’t get persons talking about 
themselves? ” 

‘¢ Ah, then it is that being well educated, being well 
read, being widely experienced counts! While a boy, 
unless you’re willing to be considered a dumb-bell by 
grown folk, read something better than sensational 
newspapers, get something out of magazines better than 
silly love tales and impossible yarns of adventure, hear 
something more musical than jazz bands, learn to enjoy 
and feel the inspiration of great pictures. More than 
all else, hear worth-while speakers and read useful 
books. Tink while you observe and apply what you 
learn to your own life and the lives about you. Do 
this, and you'll always have something interesting to 
think about, to write about, to talk about.” 

“Some of the fellows cram up on current events, 
when they’re going out.” 

“Don’t get that habit. It’s shoddy, and shoddy 
never wears well. A boy I knew tried a whole evening 
to get the conversation around to Russia, so as to show 
off what he’d been reading up on Moscow. Finally 
some one said: ‘ It’s getting late and I must go.’ In- 
stantly this boy piped up: ‘ Er—speaking of must-go, 
did you know that Moscow covers an area of thirty- 
two square miles?’ The shout that went up cured him 
of cramming. 

‘‘ And remember this, Dick: the best conversation- 
alists invariably are courteous listeners! ” 


XXXIV 
WEEK-END VISITING 


is AY, Dad, what about this week-end business? ” 

S “‘ Meaning? ”’ 

“Tm invited out to Tommy Conklin’s house 
for over Sunday, and I don’t know how to act.” 

“Don’t act! Just be yourself. Have you the 
idea that you ought to be different because you’re 
visiting? ” 

“‘ Well, you see, the Conklins are pretty swell, with 
a butler and everything, and I don’t want to have 
them laugh at me.” 

“Now see here, Dick—get this straight and remem- 
ber it as long as you live: no one but a snob and a 
cad will ridicule a boy because he’s not used to great 
wealth, or look down upon him because he’s lived a 
simpler life. They expect you to be a little gentleman, 
with all that that implies, and ask no more of you. But 
I know how a boy feels when visiting strangers, and 
Ill tell you a few things to bear in mind. 

“Go, and leave, exactly when they expect you to. 
Some visitors are careless about catching the train they 
have said they’d take, and some seem to think it all 
right to stay a little longer than their invitation cov- 
ered. This may not only upset their host’s plans for 
other guests, but cause the visitor to be remembered as 
one lacking in ordinary courtesy. Then, adapt your- 
self to their plans in every way. Let them feel that 
they are giving you a good time.” 


12] 


122 | SAY, DAD! 


“Gee, I hope they don’t think they’ve got to en- 
tertain me! Tommy and I will have enough fun 
without that.” 

“The most sensible and tactful people realize that 
the kindest thing they can do for their guests, a good 
part of their stay, is to leave them to their own de- 
vices. Nothing is more tiresome than to be trotted 
around to one affair after another, when you’d much 
rather talk or read or wander about by yourself. How- 
ever, a boy guest is not likely to receive embarrassing 
attention, and Tommy will see to it that you two enjoy 
every minute, I’m sure.” 

‘“‘ Now—er—what’ll I have to take, Dad? ” 

‘Why, I don’t have to tell you that,—pajamas, a 
change of underwear and stockings, another shirt and 
several collars, handkerchiefs, comb and brush, tooth- 
brush and paste, and your little shoe-polishing outfit. 
I’ll lend you my handy sewing-kit—in case a button 
comes loose somewhere, or something starts to rip.” 

“That’s a lot of stuff for Saturday till Monday, 
Dad.” 

“It'll all fit nicely into the travelling bag you got 
Christmas, and leave space for a box of candy.” 

“Well, what'll I say to Mr. and Mrs. Conklin when 
I get there? ” 

“Tell them in your own way that you think it very 
nice of them to have you out for a week-end with 
Tommy; and that your mother and I wish to be re- 
membered to them.” 

‘““ And when I’m leaving, tell them I’ve had a fine 
time, and hope they’ll let Tommy visit me before 
long? ” 

“‘'That’s the idea. And that’s about all I can think 
of,—for I needn’t warn you not to monopolize the 


WEEK-END VISITING 123 


conversation, nor to be sure to show an interest in what 
others tell you or otherwise bring to your attention.” 

“How about tips, Dad? Am I supposed to leave 
something for that butler chap, and the chauffeurs and 
maids, and all? ” 

“‘T don’t believe they'll expect it from a boy; but if 
you like, you may ask Tommy how much you’d better 
leave. He’ll probably answer, ‘ Forget it, Dick—they 
get too much now! ’ 

“Tf you were younger, I might think it wise to advise 
you about table manners. Some youngsters—and I 
regret to say some not-so-young-sters—need to be told 
not to stuff, not to eat noisily, not to handle the knife 
as a sword or the fork as a shovel. You’ve been 
brought up among civilized people, I trust, and realize 
that a meal is not something to be disposed of as 
quickly and absorbedly as possible. Cheerful conver- 
sation should be the better part of even the most 
tempting meal. 

‘“‘ Speaking of youngsters—at four years of age your 
cousin Buster was all that his name implied. So round 
was he that he looked upon the point of bursting. 
Such a ravenous little eater was he, that, whenever he 
got the chance, he made all onlookers pop-eyed with 
amazement at the quantity of food he could eat. 
Here, at one Christmas dinner, his mother let him eat 
and eat, until your mother was worried. Finally she 
said, ‘Well, Buster, where do you put it all?’ 
‘Auntie Meg,’ he replied, gravely, ‘I des I’m not half 
so little as I look on de outside! ’ ” 


XXXKV 
THE ART OF QUIZZING QUIZZERS 


take you for the town pump? ” 
‘“‘T don’t remember being addressed as such.” 

‘“‘T mean, Dad, were people forever trying to pump 
you about what was none of their business? ” 

“Miss Tellit, the village gossip, used to corner me 
just after there’d been a birth or a marriage or death 
in our family. Who’s been pestering you, Dick? ” 

“Lots of folks. Mr. Fulsome, today. Stopped me 
on my way to school. Asked if you’d sold your Bark- 
hamstead place.” 

““Oh, yes. He’s anxious to buy it, and wants to 
know what to offer me for it. What did you tell 
him? ” 

“‘ Well, as he’s supposed to be a gentleman, I couldn’t 
tell him to mind his own affairs. I couldn’t say I didn’t 
know, because I did. So I said no, you hadn’t. Then 
he said, ‘ Your father’s pretty anxious to sell, isn’t he, 
now?’ That made me mad—the old quizzy! I said 
I guessed not. ‘ Never expects to use the place, does 
he? ’ was his next one. ‘I'll tell you how you may be 
able to find out, Mr. Fulsome,’ I answered. At that 
he looked real foxy, and took a quarter out of his 
pocket, and bent nearer, and said, ‘How?’ And I 
looked up and down the street, as though I was going 
to tell a great secret, then whispered in his ear, ‘ Ask 
Dad!’ He hurried away, growling, ‘ Drat the boy! ’ ” 


124 


Ss AY, Dad, when you were a boy, did everybody 


THE ART OF QUIZZING QUIZZERS 125 


‘“‘ Busybodies put a conscientious boy in many a fix. 
You handled your friend, Fulsome, very well, Dick. 
I remember asking one thick-skinned question-mark 
why he wasn’t ashamed to try to pry out of a child 
what he didn’t dare ask a grown-up. Of course he 
called me several varieties of sauce-box,—but he never 
tackled me again.”’ 

‘‘ Whenever I meet Mrs. Wyant, she wants to know 
if we’re keeping two maids now.” 

‘““Narrow-gauge minds are often built that way. 
The love of dealing in the private affairs of other per- 
sons is an incurable disease. You'll find at least one 
case of it in every community. This talk reminds me 
of the dilemma of a boy I knew—Mat Mason. 

‘“‘ His mother, in a flutter, called him into the house 
one day, and told him she must hurry down town for 
something she’d forgotten to order; that Mr. and Mrs. 
Somebody would probably call before she got back; 
and that Mat must entertain them, as no one else 
would be at home. Mat made a wry face. 

*** Now be nice about it,’ she begged, ‘ for it can’t 
be helped. And be sure to be as polite as Lord Chester- 
field, for your father is hoping to go into business with 
Mr. S., and if you displease them you may spoil every- 
thing. But be careful, while perfectly courteous, not 
to tell Mrs. S. anything about your sister’s engagement 
to Fred Temple. If you do, Stella will never for- 
give you! ’ 

“You can imagine in what a pleasant state of mind 
this left young Mat, and how happy he was when 
seated in the parlour with the couple who must be 
handled with such diplomacy. Several times Mat 
sensed a question relating to his sister’s love affair, 
and perspiringly managed to side-track it. But finally 


126 SAY, DAD! 


out it came—when was Stella going to be married? 
The dialogue then went something like this: 

“* Bella, did you say, Mrs. 8.?’ 

““* No, Stella, your sister, of course! ’ 

“Oh, Stella! Yes’m, she’s well. Did you 
know she has a dog? It’s a dachshund, and we’ve 
named it—’ 

“‘“ Who is she going to marry—what’s his name? ’ 

‘““¢__Eternity, because he’s so long.’ 

‘“‘* Boy, what are you talking about? ’ 

““* Stella’s dog. And when you—’ 

“‘*Tsn’t she seen everywhere with a Mr. Scott?’ 

‘““*QOh, no’m; that dog won’t go near anybody but 
Stella.’ 

“‘“ Well, I must say you’re either the sauciest or the 
stupidest boy I ever talked to in all my days! ’ 

““« Yes’m,’ assented Mat, looking dumber than ever. 

‘“‘So he sacrificed his reputation as a wide-awake 
chap rather than give away family secrets.” 

“Did his father go into partnership with the other 
man? ” 

“Yes, indeed, Dick. And Mr. S. proved to be a 
much more acute person than was his wife; for he had 
understood just why Mat was playing the ninny, and 
admired him for it. ‘A boy who can dodge my wife’s 
questions is smart enough to make me a good office- 
boy,’ he told Mat’s father. And today Mat is a mem- 
ber of the firm.” 

“ All right, Dad. With quizzers I’ll be a dumb-bell! ” 


XXXVI 
AFTER ALL, POLITENESS PAYS 


“WT doesn’t pay, any more, to be polite and kind 

I and all that—and I’m through! ” 

“ Really, Dick? ” 

“Tl say so! Probably, when you were a boy it 
went all right; but it sure doesn’t work any more. 
From now on, I’m going to be rough and tough and 
hoggish, like everybody else.” 

“Tf that’s the case, I must hurry and get up-to- 
date—so suppose you get out of this study and let me 
do some reading! And be quick about it, too! ” 

“Why, Dad! That’s the first time I ever heard 
you—” 

“I’m trying to be rough, tough, and hoggish, that’s 
all.” 

“But, it would be terrible to have you and mother 
that way! Oh, I know you’re kidding me; but wait 
till I tell you all I got for courtesy today. On the way 
to school I saw a lady—a woman—ahead of me with 
her handbag open. I hurried up to her, took off my 
cap, and told her about it. Did she thank me? She 
scowled and wanted to know what business that was 
of mine! ” 

‘¢ She tried to cover up the shame of her carelessness 
with something much more shameful—a burst of vul- 
garity. She must be controlled by a most unpleasant 
disposition, and we ought to be very sorry for her.” 

‘“‘ Well, I suppose so, but it made me hot, just the 


» 127 


128 SAY, DAD! 


same. Then in school I got another jolt. Andy Brown 
made a noise like a cat fight, and stared at me as if I’d 
done it. The teacher asked me if I had, and I said no. 
Then she asked Andy if he had and he said no. Then 
she wanted me to tell who had done it, and of course I 
wouldn’t. Then she demanded the same of Andy, and 
he accused me! ” 

‘‘ What did she say to that, Dick? ” 

‘¢ She said, ‘I have never known Richard to tell an 
untruth or inform against another. Andrew will re- 
main after school until I can talk with him.’ ”’ 

‘Did Andy look repentant when he came out? ” 

“‘ Not a bit of it—he just looked ugly.” 

“So you waited for him, eh, Dick? You said a 
while ago that fighting seldom decided anything.” 

“Well, I was just kind of wandering around where 
he goes cross-lots to his house.” 

‘“‘T suppose you didn’t say anything to him? ” 

“No, I didn’t say anything to him, Dad. But he 
went home blubbering.”’ 

‘“‘'That was very sad, Dick. What seemed to be the 
trouble? ” 

‘‘ Well, he seemed to have kind of a nosebleed.” 

“We'll trust that that relieved the pressure upon 
the part of his brain where mean and cowardly im- 
pulses start. So you’re going to turn barbarian because 
of a wasp-woman and a fox-boy? ” 

“T got another slam from a sick-looking old man in 
the trolley. When I offered him my seat, he turned on 
me and raved till I got off to be rid of him! He yelled 
that I needn’t try to insult him, that he was just as able 
to stand as I was—and a lot more like that.” 

“Well, Dick, don’t let’s count your last unpleasant 
encounter at all. Your old man’s mind as well as his 


AFTER ALL, POLITENESS PAYS 129 


body was sick, and he couldn’t appreciate your kind 
act nor control his sensitive temper. Old age often has 
such heavy burdens to bear that we ought always to 
be very indulgent with it. As for the treatment from 
the woman and the boy, such things are very hard to 
bear, but are good discipline for us who call ourselves 
civilized. However unjust others are to us, however 
false and cruel, it is our part to stand fast by our col- 
ours and be undismayed. 

“The rough and the tough and the hoggish are often 
more or less excusable, when you come to think them 
over. Many of them have had nothing in their lives 
to make them refined or unselfish. Life to millions is 
nothing higher than a ceaseless struggle to get and to 
keep—whether it be a trolley-car seat or bread and a 
roof. Being considerate of others, and appreciating 
their thoughtfulness of us, is a state of mind to which 
we have been climbing through the ages. Remember, 
once upon a time we were all chasing one another with 
battle-axes. Some axes are still in use.” 

“ As usual, Dad, you’ve taken most of the wild In- 
dian out of me; but I don’t like to be kicked for trying 
to be a bit decent, and I can’t help growling inside.” 

“ Keep in mind, my boy, that ‘ being decent,’ as you 
call it, is its own reward. By being to others as you’d 
like to have them be to you, you’re drawing to yourself 
something finer than the thanks of a multitude. Now 
let’s see if we can’t find something to do for mother.” 


XXXVIT 


YOUNGSTERS AND OLDSTERS 


“Whereas you are so restful to them? ” 

“Now you’re being iron—what is it?—iron- 
ical, Dad! Outside you’re agreeing with me, but inside 
you’re laughing at me. You know what I mean.” 

“I know you’ve been in the garden with an elderly 
gentleman named Blossom. He’s the father of one of 
your mother’s dearest friends, and I’ve found him very 
interesting.” 

“Then you talked bugs with him, for that’s all he 
knows.” 

“You are wrong, Dick—Mr. Blossom knows ants.” 

“Well, aren’t they the same thing? ” 

“By no means! Bugs are heteropterous hemipter- 
ous insects, while ants are heterogynous hymenopterous 
insects.” 

‘““Wow! Say, Dad, are the poor little things really 
tagged that way? Now I know why they’re always 
running around so crazy-headed,—they’re looking for 
bug-dictionaries to find out how to spell themselves! ” 

“Did your mother send you out with Mr. 
Blossom? ” 

“Yes. She told me to entertain him for a while.” 

“Did you succeed? ” 

“He didn’t act so, Dad. I told him all about the 
ball game last Saturday, when we laid out the High 
School team four to nothing; and all he said was, 


130 


SS Dad, old folks make me tired! ” 


YOUNGSTERS AND OLDSTERS 131 


‘Yes, yes, I dare say. We didn’t play football when 
I was a lad.’ Football, mind you, Dad! Then I 
talked about the big passenger airship they’re building 
across the ocean; and he just peered over my head and 
said, ‘I dare say, my boy, I dare say. Tell me, has 
your father never kept bees?’ Gee, Dad, he sure did 
make me weary! ” 

“Listen, Dick. One day last week, I think it was, 
that four-year-old youngster from next door was here. 
You were mending a kite on the porch. He went up 
to you in the friendliest manner and said, ‘I dot a 
yabbit! ’ You said, ‘Yeah?’ ‘An’ I dot a efelunt 
wiv a twunk!’ You grunted and kept on at your 
work. ‘An’ our tat had tittens,’ went on the mite, 
plainly trying hard to be entertaining, and proceeded 
to describe each kitten from its ears to the tip of its 
intriguing tail. You didn’t seem to be a bit interested.” 

“Well, I should say not! IV’mno baby! I outgrew 
all that sort of thing years and years ago. I didn’t 
blame the kid for jabbering away like that, for that’s 
all he knows. But I had my fill of rabbits and kittens 
when I got into knickerbockers; now I’ve more im- 
portant things to think of. What are you grinning 
at, Dad? ” 

“And Mr. Blossom was through with school games 
something like half a century before you were born; 
and over getting excited by new inventions and discov- 
eries—outside of his particular line—many years ago. 
He and you and the toddler are living in three separate 
worlds. To you, kites and games are important and 
interesting, but toys are foolish. To Mr. Blossom, 
plant and insect life are absorbing and your amuse- 
ments trivial. As the years go by, we are interested in 
a progression of things. Morons, whose brains have 


132 SAY, DAD! 


not kept up with their bodies, are different. Some of 
these unfortunates are in institutions, where they can 
play with toys as long as they live. Others, not quite 
so afflicted, get as far as so-called musical shows and 
epileptic dancing, all night and every night, and find 
sane living boresome. The point is, don’t expect those 
of another age to become enthusiastic about your own 
affairs; and don’t think less of them because they 
haven’t reached your plane, or have passed it.” 

“IT get you, Dad. I guess I tired the old gentleman 
a lot more than he tired me. Now, when it’s too late, 
I remember where I started wrong with him. A while 
ago you told me to find out what others were keen on, 
and get them to talk about it. If I’d had the sense to 
do that with Mr. Blossom, probably he’d have thought 
me pretty intelligent, eh? As it is, I’m afraid he 
thinks me an awful ninny! ” 

“‘T doubt it, Dick. The right kind of old age brings 
a fine understanding and toleration. But you did miss 
some mighty interesting talk on our little crawler 
friends and enemies. Tonight I wish you’d ask him to 
tell you about the Myrmecocystus mel—” 

“Say, Dad! You ask him, and I’ll stick around. I 
don’t mind hearing those names that are fifty times as 
long as the bugs themselves; but the very thought of 
saying them makes my face ache! ”’ 


XXXVITI 
“ SHOWING OFF” FOR COMPANY 


Dad—” 
‘“¢ Small favours thankfully received, Dick! ” 

‘You never tried to make a monkey out of me! ” 

“ Perhaps—”’ 

“Now, Dad! I know what you started to say. But 
what I mean is, that you never try to make me show 
off before your friends. This would-be prodigy busi- 
ness makes a fellow sick! Reggie Somers,—he hates 
his name, by the way, and we always call him ‘ Spuds,’ 
—has to recite silly poems and do fiddle solos whenever 
there’s company at his house. It makes him so mad 
that twice he’s run away from home to be a gold-miner 
in the Great Northwest; and once he got as far as 
Chicago.” 

“7 used to have to play the Rockdale Revery, 
when it was a strain to reach the keys and the 
pedals at the same time. Your Grandpa and 
Grandma pridefully enjoyed the recitals—but they 
were agony to the guests as well as the performer. 
Maybe that’s why I never called upon you for parlour 
tricks, Dick.” 

“Oh, Spuds has to do more than inside stuff! He’s 
on exhibition in the car, or a train, or walking along 
the street, so long as there’s someone to say, ‘ You 
must be so proud of Reginald, Mr. Somers! And you 
say he’s only ten? My, my—what are the children 


133 


rs T HERE’S one fine thing about you and mother, 


134 SAY, DAD! 


coming to, these days, with all their wonderful 
accomplishments! ’ ” 

‘“‘T don’t suppose any of us parents are half so wise 
as we are well-meaning. Spud’s folks don’t realize 
how they’re tormenting him.” 

“°Tisn’t only that they make him feel like a perfect 
idiot—they spoil so much of his fun. I was there the 
other night, and he was showing me a bully book he’d 
just drawn from the library. It was all about adven- 
tures with lions and tigers, and the pictures made your 
back feel all prickery—you know. Well, because they 
had friends in, Mrs. Somers piped up, ‘ Reginald, dear, 
what book are you and your little playmate so ab- 
sorbed in?’ ‘Ten Weeks with African Cats,’ an- 
swered Spuds. ‘ Mere fiction! ’ said she, smiling but 
shaking her head. ‘I’m sure you are more deeply in- 
terested in Emerson. Let Mr. Soandso hear you recite 
that passage from his Uses of Great Men,—“ Great 
men are thus a—” Go on, dear!’ And the poor kid | 
had to stutter and stammer through a lot of big 
words till we both wished the house’d take fire, or 
something! ” 

‘Makes me think of a young martyr I chummed 
with, called Rockface because he could look so solemn 
in the funniest situation. A stupid-looking old gentle- 
man came to visit at his house, and dinner being some- 
what delayed the first night, the boy was told to take 
the guest about the farm, and show him the animals. 
Rockface, being called away at the most critical period 
of kite-making, started with outward complacency but 
with inward grumblings. 

“Tf the old gentleman was aware of his guide’s re- 
bellious seethings, he concealed the fact, and trotted 
along from poultry-runs to stables, and thence to the 


“SHOWING OFF” FOR COMPANY 135 


cow-barns. ‘Ah, here we have the cattle! ’ exclaimed 
the visitor, with a queer glance at his unwilling pilot. 
‘Doubtless you can tell me what breed they are, and 
all about them? ’ 

“Tt was at this point that some naughty imp of 
mischief put it into Rockface’s head to string the old 
gentleman along. With the straightest of faces, he in- 
formed him that the Jerseys were Gyascutuses,—a very 
rare and valuable breed found only in the Jingaroo 
Islands. This seemed to interest the gentle stranger 
most intensely. He asked what characteristic made 
them so valuable? Rockface replied that they gave not 
only milk and cream and buttermilk, but seven varie- 
ties of cheese, which solidified upon exposure to the 
air. The visitor said that that was one of the most 
remarkable facts that had ever been called to his 
attention. 

“As they went back to the house, it occurred to 
Rockface that perhaps it would be as well if he made 
himself scarce for a time. But, to his chagrin, they 
ran plump into his father, who naturally asked the old 
gentleman if he had seen anything worth the seeing. 

“Yes, indeed,’ he answered, while Rockface turned 
cold and clammy. ‘ You have some wonderful cattle.’ 

“‘«-That’s a high compliment,’ proudly exclaimed his 
father, ‘from you, sir—one of America’s greatest 
ranchers! ’ 

‘“ Rockface crawled under the house and stayed 
there.” 


XXXIX 
FINDING A HOBBY TO RIDE 


ih HAT’S a hobby, Dad? ” 

\ \ “What does the dictionary say? ” 

“<A subject or pursuit in which a person 
takes extravagant or persistent interest.’ ” 

‘“‘Doesn’t that answer you, Dick? ” 

“Well, that might be a fellow’s steady job, 
mightn’t it, Dad? I had the idea it meant some- 
thing extra a chap turned to—something with more 
fun in it.” 

“‘ And yow’re perfectly right. Most often, when we 
speak of a man’s hobby, we refer to his favourite 
recreation. What brought up your query? ” 

‘“‘In some book I read, ‘ Acquire some innocent 
hobbies while you’re young. They’ll prove friends in- 
deed in your relaxing years.’ ” 

“Very good! I pity the man or woman with no 
hobby to ride; the person who has no beloved self- 
amusement to enjoy between work periods, or when 
lonely, or during a convalescence. Lots of folks be- 
sides the jealously lovelorn are helplessly singing, 
‘What’ll I do?’” 

“I know what yours is, Dad—music.” 

‘“‘'That’s one. I have a whole herd of them. One 
of yours is radio, and another is stamp-collecting. But 
suppose you were far away from both, and without 
books, shut up in an old farmhouse on a stormy day. 
How could you enjoy yourself, if all alone? ” 


136 


FINDING A HOBBY TO RIDE 137 


“That’s a hard one, Dad! I don’t know. Were 
you ever in that particular pickle? ” 

“Yes; and I disconsolately stared out at the sodden 
fields for the first half hour. Then I searched for 
pencil and paper and wandered over the house looking 
for something interesting to sketch.” 

‘“‘ But I can’t draw for a cent, Dad.” 

“Of course you can. Anyone can who is able to 
write the figures for ‘ ten.’ ” 

“‘ What—just a one and a naught? ” 

“‘ Certainly—a straight line and a curve. We'll have 
a little talk about that later. Up in the attic I discov- 
ered a spinning-wheel; and by the time I had drawn its 
queer spindles at something near their proper angles, 
half the morning had passed, and I was ready to stow 
away some cookies and milk.” 

“That part wouldn’t have troubled me at all, Dad! ” 

“‘ After topping off with a couple of sweet apples, I 
remembered the carpenter shop! The old-time farmer 
always had one, in the barn or attached to his wood- 
shed, where he could mend his wooden rakes, repair a 
window sash, and so on. This one was delightfully 
littered with shavings, and held a warm woodsy smell 
that I found most alluring. Cousin Newell was known 
to be rather pernickety about his tools, and that added 
a certain spice to my handling of his saws and chisels 
and drawing-knives; but I spent one of the happiest 
afternoons of my boyhood, that day, making a Chinese 
junk which probably caused numerous yellow boat- 
builders to turn over in their graves.” 

“That was bully, Dad! Will you get me a tool- 
chest, and let me set up a carpenter’s bench—er— 
somewhere? ” 

““T believe I will; for to me a man never seems a 


138 SAY, DAD! 


whole man unless he is handy with tools. We'll see 
about it next Christmas. Making things of wood or 
metal is the hobby of many a desk-bound man. Tosti, 
the composer, used to use his spare hours in making 
beautiful chairs. More than one was accepted by 
Queen Victoria. 

“Some time you ought to write a composition on 
‘Little Hobbies of Great Men.’ A continuity of labour 
deadens the soul—says Seneca—and the mind must 
unbend itself by certain amusements. Some hobbies 
are useless, except for their amusement. When Pe- 
tavius was writing one of his profound books, he’d 
stop at the end of every second hour and twirl his chair 
for five minutes.” 

‘“‘T suppose the poor simp couldn’t think up a ‘ daily 
dozen,’ could he? ” | 

‘‘ Spinoza found relaxation in making spiders fight. 
Tycho Brahe—a character you might look up, Dick— 
diverted himself by polishing lenses, and making 
matheematical instruments. Balzac amused himself 
with his collection of crayon portraits. One of our 
chief justices, and at least two of our Presidents, have 
turned from weighty matters to clap-trap detective 
stories.”’ 

“T’m going to ask mother what’s her favourite 
hobby! ” 

‘“‘ Go ahead—lll listen. And, unless I’m very much 
mistaken, she will answer, ‘ Trying to catch up with the 
mending, dear. Hobbies are for hubbies! ’ ” 


XL 
SOMETHING TO MAKE FOR MOTHER 


day. I haven’t much money.” 
“Why not make her something, Dick? She’d 
think more of it than if it cost a million.” 

“I know; but what is there I can make her? It 
mustn’t be some silly thing she’ll never use.” 

“Let me think. What was it that annoyed her so 
the other day? I remember,—forgetting to send birth- 
day cards to the Stirling twins. She said that persons’ 
birthdays, and other gift occasions, come along so fast 
that it’s next to impossible to keep track of them. 
Now, that gives you a chance to make her a Remem- 
brance File.” 

“TI never heard of such a thing, Dad.” 

“Of course not. It’s just this moment been in- 
vented. That makes it all the more interesting. 
Here’s the idea: Mother, like all the rest of us who 
have a lot of relatives and more or less intimate friends 
whom we like to remember with a gift or card or letter 
—at Christmas, on their birthdays, their wedding anni- 
versaries, and so on—finds it difficult to keep all these 
dates in mind. She has several lists and memos, and 
all that, in her desk, and she tries to keep her address- 
book up to date. Nevertheless, every now and then 
we hear her regretting that someone has been forgotten 
until too late to do any good. 

““Now, suppose you get one of those little boxes of 


139 


S AY, Dad, what can I get Mother for her birth- 


140 SAY, DAD! 


indexed filing cards—they cost something like one dol- 
lar—and fill out a card for every one of mother’s inti- 
mate friends, giving the full name, address, occasion 
to be remembered with a present or card or letter, as 
the case may be, and notes of whatever will help in 
selecting the remembrance. Of course, each card will 
bear its date, and all the cards will be grouped under 
their respective months. Then get some of those little 
numbered indicators that nip the top edges of the cards, 
and make them show a date two days before the par- 
ticular remembrance must be sent. Understand? ” 

“Yes, indeed, Dad; but you'll have to help me get 
the information together.” 

“Tl do that. Give me your pad—this is what 
I mean ”: 


March 7 Birthday 


Miss Rhoda Manning, 
475 West Arlington St., 
Middleboro, Maine. 


Dotes on animal pictures. 


Christmas Present 


Prof. Mark Kennedy, 
Shingleville, Iowa. 


Always the latest book on psychology. 
Send early. 





SOMETHING TO MAKE FOR MOTHER 141 


“ Say, Dad, that’s certainly one bully scheme! ” 

“ Mother’ll get in the habit of glancing at the file 
each night, and so always be prepared in time to send 
her messages of cheer and friendliness to those nearest 
her heart. To make it complete, why don’t you add 
a Correspondence Section,—listing everyone mother 
writes to, so that she can enter on a card exactly when 
a letter came, the number of the letter (so she can file 
it, too), and the date that she answered it? ” 

“Great! I bet loads of folks would like to have 
little systems like that. Everybody worries about un- 
answered letters.” 

“IT know I’d be glad to have one. When you finish 
mother’s, and find the time, Dick, just rig up one for 
me, and I’ll pay you three dollars for it.” 

“‘ Gee, Dad, thanks! Tell you what—I guess I'll go 
in the business! I could sell ’em for a couple of dollars 
apiece, anyway. Don’t you think? Even the fellows 
at school could use ’em to keep track of when exams 
are coming, when compositions are due, the baseball 
and football games, and everything.” 

“ Possibly. You might get up a sample box and see 
what orders you can get. Going at it that way, you 
won’t run the risk of having dead stock left on your 
hands. I’ll be ready to help you with mother’s tomor- 
row evening. She’ll be out then, and I can prowl 
around her belongings like a well-intentioned burglar.” 

“* And, Dad—on the card with my name, for Christ- 
mas, it won’t do any harm to write a gentle reminder 
that I’m hoping to be ee with a portable type- 
writer, eh? ” 


XLI 


CHOOSING YOUR “ TRADE-MARK ” 


r S fellows—I mean we fellows—are getting up 
sort of trademarks for ourselves, Dad. You 


know—coats-of-arms, didn’t they used to call 
‘em? We'll use ’em to mark our books and every- 
thing. What’s a good outline to start with? ” 

“‘ Some form of shield would be artistic, and a square 
would symbolize a square life; but to me the equilateral 
triangle, point down, means the fullest manhood. Let 
one side stand for body, the other for mind, and the 
top bar for spirit, and you have the whole man, with 
his three parts firmly fastened together, each support- 
ing the two others. In red, with YMCA across it, it 
stands for an organization devoted to the building of 
manhood,—but the triangle itself you can use, with 
your monogram inside.” gis es : 

“That will be bully, Dad! I wanted to find some- 
thing with a real meaning. There’s a lot to that tri- 
angle idea, when you come to think of it. A chap that 
wasn’t well-balanced wouldn’t deserve a triangle with 
equal sides, would he? ” 

“How many of us deserve one, Dick? First there’s 
the man who’s given all his thought, all his energy to 
building up a magnificent body. Exercise, bathing, 
diet, weight—these are his only concerns. In time he 
becomes a wonder physically. In his chosen line he is 
a champion. But he’s bored by anything more literary 
than the sporting page, and his spiritual side has shrunk 


142 


CHOOSING YOUR “ TRADE-MARK ” 143 


to nothingness. Instead of being a whole man, he’s 
only a powerful machine of flesh.” 

“ That kind of a guy’s no triangle at all, for two of 
his sides would never be long enough to meet.” 

“Then there’s the man who neglects his body and 
forgets about his soul, being so taken up with his 
brain. I knew a boy, a splendid fellow, who became 
that kind of an unbalanced man. So intent did he 
become upon his chemical researches, so absorbed in 
trying to discover some of Nature’s secrets, that he 
forgot his wife and children and friends, lost faith in 
his God, and died at forty because he was too busy to 
remember he had a body that needed a little care. So, 
he wasn’t a man—merely a super-keen brain,—a line, 
we may say, instead of a sturdy triangle.” 

“ And his line was the shortest distance between his 
laboratory and the cemetery! ”’ 

“Very epigrammatic, Dick. And now we come to 
the last—the misguided man who imagines his spiritual 
side to be the only one worth development. Such men 
seem to be proud of their thin wasted bodies,—as 
though there could be a healthy mind in a perpetually- 
sick body! And they scorn any line of thought not 
intimately connected with spiritual things,—as though 
man were already entirely a spirit, instead of matter 
and spirit combined. A healthy tree must reach down 
into the earth as well as up into the sky: and a whole 
man must get the most good from his earth life, as well 
as reach out into the realms of the life to come. How 
much more Holy many sanctified men would be, if only 
they took care to be wholly men! ”’ 

“T’ll watch my triangle, Dad, and see that it 
doesn’t get too lop-sided. But, listen! After I get 
my mark all designed, what’ll I do every time I want 


144 SAY, DAD! 


to use it? I mean, must I trace it, or something, into 
each book? ” 

“‘ Copy it in India ink, about four times as large as 
you wish it to be, on a piece of bristol-board. I'll give 
you the material. Then I’ll have an electrotype made 
of it, and a hundred copies printed on thin gummed 
paper. You can colour these book-plates with you 
photographic tints.” 

“Oh, Dad, that will be the poodle’s pajamas! ” 

“‘ T never should have thought it. The reason I’m so 
glad to help you with your little scheme is, that book- 
plates will make you set a higher value on your books 
—it’s the personal touch that does it—and will prevent 
most of those you lend from being lost, strayed or 
stolen. Some otherwise excellent persons are careless 
about borrowed books, and the sight of a book-plate 
bearing the owner’s name usually reminds the borrower 
of his duty. Sometimes the label bears a warning. I 
once copied this from a second-hand book: 


“< This book I’m glad to lend 
To you, my cherished friend, 
Because you'll keep it clean, 
And never be so mean 
As any page to fold. 
Books are my only gold,— 
So, though our friendship’s old, 
If my books you offend, 
Our comradeship must end!’ ” 


“That gives me an idea for mine, Dad. I'll make it 
read: ‘ If you don’t return this book, You are nothing 
but a crook! ’” 


IV 
GROWING UP 


DREAMING AND DOING 


The lad who doesn’t dream of what 
He hopes to be some day, 

Will probably be nothing much 
If he can have his way; 

Ambition paints in rosy tints 

The future of the chap 

Who means to find his Isle of Dreams 

And put it on the map! 


No trail was ever blazed upon 
A new world’s virgin trees, 

No galleon was ever launched 
Upon the unknown seas, 

Until in dreams the trail was made, 
The fair far country found, 
Long, long before a pack was rolled 
Or ship was outward bound! 


But many a lad and many a man 
Has dreamed of deeds sublime 
He meant to do when he grew up, 
Or when he found the time; 
But manhood came, and manhood went, 
While down life’s silent stream 
The dreamers floated, doing naught 
But dream, and dream, and dream. 


So, dream, my lads, while youth is yours 
And hope is brave and bold! 

Dream of yourselves as righting wrong, 
And spending love untold; 

But don’t forget the days fly fast 
And will not wait for you— 

With all your dreaming, what you are 
Depends on what you do! 


XLIT 
DON’T BECOME A BOASTER 


a HAT man who was here last night—he isn’t 
the greatest human being that ever lived, is 
he, Dad? ” 

“ Hardly! ” 

“Well, what makes him think he is, then? I never 
listened to such an old bragger in all my life. Every 
picture, every book, every rug-he saw—and he nosed 
around at everything—was, ‘ Pretty fair, pretty fair— 
you ought to see the one I have.’ According to him, 
he’s had the greatest success in everything he’s tackled, 
made the most money, got the finest house—”’ 

“To me he’s so funny that I almost forget he’s dis- 
gusting, Dick. Ordinary conceit is tiresome, but colos- 
sal egotism is a joke. Of course, just as a joke-book 
is the saddest reading after a while, living with the man 
would be a tragedy. Fortunately for them both, his 
wife is as much of a boaster as he—and more intoler- 
able from being even more ignorant.” 

‘“* How did he get that way, Dad? ” 

“‘ Well, queer as it sounds, he started with an inferi- 
ority complex. Know what that is, Dick? ” 

“Sure. It’s the quirk in the brain that makes a chap 
think too little of himself—makes him afraid to tackle 
jobs others are handling.” 

“Until he accidentally made some money, a good 
deal of it, he was the meekest individual you ever saw. 
The minute wealth came, he started in to show the 


147 


148 SAY, DAD! 


world that he was as good as anybody and maybe a 
little better. Lacking in good taste, and in the ability 
to appreciate the finer things of life, of course he ex- 
pects to win the admiration of us all by displaying a 
houseful of expensive but garish furnishings, using a 
car somewhat resembling a circus wagon, wearing 
clothes that can be heard in the dark, and talking about 
it all. He says, almost pathetically, that Society with 
the big S is so jealous of his possessions, that it won’t 
ever notice his most pressing invitations.” 

‘“‘Somebody ought to tell him what a jay he is, 
Dad! ” 

‘‘ He’d never believe it, Dick. If he did, it would end 
him then and there. Moral: Never be a boaster.”’ 

“‘'There’s a fellow like that in school. We call him 
Gully—from Gulliver, who wrote such awful whoppers 
—and ‘ gullible,’ which he certainly is. Bert Pratt 
spoke of his Shetland pony, and Gully said, ‘My 
brother has four of ’em, and drives ’em before a dandy 
little coach!’ Then Lawrie Abraham mentioned his 
father’s yacht. ‘ My cousin,’ said Gully, ‘ has one that 
can be turned into an airplane or a submarine, just by 
pressing different buttons!’ We all kept our faces 
straight, somehow, and Charlie Hutchins said, ‘ Well, 
that may be; but I’ll bet none of your relations own a 
pair of tame buffums.’ ” 

“Wait a minute—what is a buffum, Dick? ” 

“We'd looked it up. It’s some stuff they adulterate 
linseed oil with. We knew very well the boaster’d 
never heard of the word. Well, what does Gully do 
but put on that sneer of his and say, ‘ They don’t, eh? 
Why, my uncle out West was the first one to bring 
buffums to this country! He’s got a whole ranch of 
’em, and they’re so tame that all he’s got to do is whistle 


DON’T BECOME A BOASTER 149 


for ’em, and they’ll come running up by thousands and 
eat right out of his hand! ’ 

“That was too rich. Part of us lay down on the 
ground, our knees got so weak from laughing, and the 
rest fell on Gully and pummelled him good and plenty. 
It did him good, too; for the other day I asked him if 
he’d ever seen an aardvark—and that is an animal, you 
know—and all he’d answer was, ‘Oh, quit your kid- 
ding, Dick! ” 

“Old Dave, the postman out in Flushing, used to 
tell funny stories of some of the folks along his line of 
delivery, including a certain Miss Beecher, who pre- 
tended to know everything and to have seen every- 
thing. One day he asked her why she hadn’t attended 
the auction sale at Colonel Procter’s, where a famous 
painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds had been sold. She 
sniffed, and declared that her Uncle Haddam, of Bos- 
ton, owned all the old masters that amounted to much. 

“< Got anything by Cadillac?’ wickedly inquired 
Dave. 

“The best he ever did,’ said she. 

““* Not Rolling the Royce?’ asked Dave. 

“‘* The very same! ’ she declared, triumphantly. 

“¢ Well,’ said Dave, moving on, ‘the picture I’ve 
always pined to see is called India and Ceylon, by Sir 
Thomas Lipton.’ 

“Tt fills one whole side of my uncle’s dining-room,’ 
was the proud reply. ‘ Don’t you wish you owned it? ’ 

‘¢¢ Sure do,’ admitted the old rascal. ‘It’d suit me 
COE Be Mig 


XLII 
WHEN YOU FEEL INVENTIVE 


I’m a man?” 
‘At last accounts it was an architect, 
wasn’t it, Dick? ” 

“T guess so—but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going 
to be a great inventor! ” 

‘‘ Why the sudden shift, if I may ask? ” 

‘Well, there seem to be such lots of things the world 
needs that no one thinks of inventing.” 

* That’s very true, Dick. I can name half-a-dozen 
this minute: We need a process for waterproofing 
everything we wear, without adding weight or warmth. 
We ought to have a serum that would absolutely pre- 
vent colds. Someone should discover how a man 
with very little time for exercise, and an incurable 
appetite, can keep down his waist-line. Something 
ought to be done to automobiles, so that they auto- 
matically would slow down when nearing another 
vehicle or pedestrian. That’s four. Then, you might 
take the static out of radio and the scratch-it out of 
the phonograph.” 

“Well, those things will come in time, Dad; but 
what I’m going to get up first is a burglar-discourager! 
Every day the papers tell of people holding up their 
arms like simps, while tough guys with no trouble at 
all walk off with their money and things. Now, sup- 
pose a robber wakes you up tonight, and points a gun 


150 


D O you know, Dad, what I’m going to be when 


WHEN YOU FEEL INVENTIVE 151 


at you, and asks where you keep your cash—what’ll 
you do? ” 

“Tell him politely and truly that I don’t keep it.” 

“No fooling, Dad! You'd give right in to him, 
wouldn’t you? ” 

“Yes. For the poor dope-sodden human wreck, in- 
capable of understanding common honesty, and dis- 
counting imprisonment and death, by the pressure of 
a finger would leave your mother a widow and you a 
half-orphan.”’ 

‘But, suppose, while you acted scared and raised 
your hands over your head, you pressed your feet 
against the footboard,—my patent electrical footboard, 
—and instantly the whole house was lighted up, a big 
gong in the street began to ring, the police were notified 
by private wire, blank-cartridges commenced going off 
on all sides of the room, and a stream of tear-gas hit 
the burglar in the face! What then? ” 

“Jupiter and Mars! What then? Why, the gas 
would do me up, even if I wasn’t shot, and your mother 
would die of fright, to say the very least.” 

“Well, you could wear a gas-mask to bed, and 
mother could wear ear-muffs.” 

‘So we could. Of course mother’d need a mask, 
too. Everyone in the house, in every house that in- 
stalled your invention, would be obliged to retire look- 
ing like a deep-sea diver and feeling worse. Besides, 
at least once a night somebody would accidentally kick 
one of your cute little footboards, and pandemonium 
would break loose. Otherwise, Dick, your idea is fine.” 

“I guess I didn’t think far enough, Dad.” 

“ The Patent Office is full of inventions afflicted with 
the same ailment as yours. Have I ever told you about 
the wonderful invention of an old classmate of mine, 


152 SAY, DAD! 


Harry Belden? His attention was attracted to trolley 
cars, after being sorely shaken up in one that ran down 
hill and jumped the track. He was convalescing from 
a serious illness at the time, and it put him on his back 
again. When he was about once more, he made up his 
mind that he’d get up a brake that would surely stop 
any trolley car in its own length—or he’d know the 
reason why not. He had the money for experimenting, 
and was fortunate enough to know someone in the trac- 
tion company. Before long he’d turned his idea into a 
model, and that into a trial brake. The company 
agreed to see what it would do.” 

“ That’s the way to go at it, Dad! Did it work?” 

‘““Oh, yes, indeed it worked. As nearly as I can 
recollect, the thing stopped the car in less than ten 
feet,’’ 

“ Bully! And your friend made a fortune, I’ll bet.” 

(74 No? 

“But, didn’t the car people have to admit that it 
stopped the car in a jiffy? ” 

“Oh, yes. They said it was undoubtedly the speed- 
iest and most powerful brake ever built. They assured 
Harry that their trials proved that a car full of pas- 
sengers, and running at top speed, could be stopped 
almost instantly. The only thing they objected to was 
the fact that, in each case, every window in the car 
would be shattered—and that every passenger would 
be propelled through the front of the car and over the 
motorman’s head. Like your idea, it was too good.” 

“Well, Dad, maybe I’d better be an architect, 
after all! ” 


XLIV 
A MAN CALLED “ FIXED MR. WIX ” 


aN ' Y HO was ‘ Fixed Mr. Wix,’ Dad? ” 
“‘ How did you come to hear of that queer 
character? ” 

“The other day you told mother that he had died; 
and you said he’d been the one man you’d known who 
hadn’t agreed with anyone or fitted in anywhere. 
What ailed him, Dad? ” 

“Petrifaction of the intellect—hardening of the 
reason—arrested judgment. He was mentally inflex- 
ible. He seemed incapable of seeing more than one 
side of a thing—and that was his side. He never 
argued, having preconceived beliefs and always being 
right. He never got along well with anyone, because 
no one thought and believed and felt exactly as he did 
—and he’d make no concessions.” 

“‘ How did he get that way? Was he anybody? ” 

“Yes, indeed; he was Mr. Wix. That’s all any of 
us knew of him, and hardly seemed to account for his 
colossal conceit. In his home and in church he set up 
certain standards of right and wrong. The fact that 
they conflicted with nearly everybody’s beliefs, that 
they disagreed with our Constitution, and with the 
Bible itself, was of no interest to Mr. Wix. So he 
stayed away from churches and lodges and clubs, their 
members being so unreasonable.” 

“‘ They were lucky to be rid of him! ” 

“‘ At home he expected his family to play chess with 


153, 


154 SAY, DAD! 


him every night. They hated it, and really couldn’t 
learn it. He enjoyed the game, therefore it was enjoy- 
able, and they must say no more about it. A happy 
home, you may imagine.” 

“They were goops to put up with him! ” 

““ By the time I came to know them, wife, sons and 
daughters were tiptoeing around like whipped slaves. 
He never allowed one to make excuses. Mistakes were 
inexcusable and unforgivable. As someone remarked, 
you were supposed to have experience without having 
experienced.” 

‘““Gee! When he was a kid, did he know that fire 
burnt before he tried it? ” 

‘‘ Somehow I never had the desire to ask him little 
trick questions like that, Dick. Then, he had the 
happy belief that he could mould all dispositions into 
the same form—which, of course, meant his own. The 
discovery that his children were not exactly alike in 
every impulse, drove him to frenzy. Why should they 
differ? One kind of being was best, and he exemplified 
that one, didn’t he? ” 

“Like fish he did! Wouldn’t he even give in 
about little things—things that didn’t make much 
difference? ”’ 

“Never. Nothing was too small to make him ex- 
plode. If you doubted his perfection, you were im- 
becile. If you imagined for one moment that you could 
do anything that he could not—the absurdity of it!— 
you were beneath consideration. If you believed any- 
thing that his peculiar mind failed to grasp, you were 
an insane dreamer. With all this—and here’s the odd 
part—he was always lonely for the companionships 
that he made impossible. He died a miserably dis- 
appointed man.” 


A MAN CALLED “FIXED MR. WIX” 155 


‘“‘ And served him good and right, Dad! ”’, 

‘“* Maybe so—but I had to pity him, Dick. He really 
thought himself superior to everyone else, however 
foolish that may have been; and logically he was dis- 
appointed by their failure to appreciate him. Such 
men—for I have known others nearly as bad—must 
have some mental taint or twist that swells their ego 
to bursting. They’re an unhappy lot, and we all sigh 
with relief when they pass on. In this little world, 
where none of us is very Sure or very wise, these men 
claim absolute wisdom and knowledge. To me, that’s 
insanity in itself—for they never accomplish anything 
to make one think them supermen. We must take 
them on their say-so. And you'll find that such egotists 
invariably lack one saving faculty.” 

“‘ What’s that, Dad? ” 

“The sense of humour. If it could be injected into 
them while they’re strutting around with imaginary 
crowns on their empty heads, they’d laugh themselves 
to death at their own folly.” 

“Well, I guess the Wix family’ll have a chance to 
laugh, now, eh? ” 

“Unless they’re too used up to try. Such petty 
tyrants usually leave their families permanently ex- 
hausted. Now, here’s the moral of our talk about poor 
Wix: If you’re dull, try to keep it to yourself. If 
you're bright, let others discover your shining qualities. 
And the first step toward ‘ knowing it all’ is granting 
that others may know a little.” 


XLV 
A QUEER KIND OF FEAR 


AY, Dad, who’s the worst coward in the 
S world? ” 
‘““He who does eae for fear of being 
laughed at.” 

“Well, I suppose so—but I mean a different kind of 
coward. I’ll bet you never heard of a grown man being 
afraid of a caf—just a plain gentle pussy-cat.” 

‘Oh, yes, I have. Do you know one, Dick? ”’ 

“My botany teacher’s one! Old Tommy jumped 
up on the arm of his chair today, and he nearly died. 
Really, Dad, by the time the janitor had chased 
Tommy out, Mr. Peck was too trembly to go on with 
the recitation! ” 

‘And you boys very unjustly concluded that Mr. 
Peck is a coward of cowards.” 

‘Well, who but a coward ’d be afraid of a cat? ” 

‘“‘ Napoleon Bonaparte, as I was telling you the other 
night. It is on record that just after the battle of 
Wagram, the Emperor, having retired to a certain 
castle, called for help. _ His attendants found him ner- 
vously avoiding a tabby, that couldn’t get it through 
her feline brain why the little man was not more 
friendly. Many persons of undoubted courage are 
terrified by the presence of a cat.” 

“That’s the queerest thing I ever heard of, 
Dad! ” 

“‘ Nevertheless, it’s a well-known fact.” 


156 


a a oe 


A QUEER KIND OF FEAR 157 


“ Where’s the sense in it? What are they afraid the 
cat will do? ” 

“Come near them, that’s all. It’s not cowardliness, 
but an unreasoning and uncontrollable loathing. Some 
folk fear a thunder-storm, some become maniacs at 
the cry of ‘ Fire!’ Some can never conquer their 
dread of the water, others grow ill at the thought of 
standing on the edge of a precipice. Some have this 
cat-phobia. Dr. S. Weir Mitchell named it eluro- 
phobia. In ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ Shylock says, 
‘Some men there are love not a gaping pig—some, 
that are mad if they behold a cat.’ ” 

“ Well, it’s all news to me, Dad. If Mr. Peck’s got 
el—whatyoucallum, we fellows will try to forgive his 
shivers. What’s the long word come from, anyway? ”’ 

“‘ Herodotus, the father of history, found the cat in 
Egypt, and called it, ‘ Aduros, or tail-waver. Hence, 
ftlurophobtia, fear of tail-wavers.” 

“I wonder if Mr. Peck would jump out of his skin 
at sight of a Manx cat. That doesn’t have a tail 
to wave.” 

“It’s not only the sight of a cat that unmans such 
persons; if one is in the room, though unseen and un- 
heard, they seem to know it, and suffer. I’ve read of 
a General Roberdean who became pale, faint and 
almost breathless, in someone else’s home, declaring 
there must be a cat in the room. A search revealing 
none, he was assured that he imagined it all. As he 
still remained ill, and persisted in his assertion, a more 
thorough search was made; and at last, behind a book- 
case was found a tiny kitten, fast asleep.” 

“‘ How the boys will open their eyes when I tell ’em! 
But, Dad, isn’t there an explanation? ” 

‘Some scientists think that there may be an odour 


158 SAY, DAD! 


from the cat, which, while undetected by the ordinary 
sense of smell, has its effect upon certain persons. 
There’s no doubt about cat-fearers being injured by 
nearness to the animal they dread. Experiments have 
proved that this may result in cases of asthma, lockjaw, 
violent seasickness, and even temporary blindness.” 

“Gee! If a little cat can do all that, what would a 
wild tiger do to a fraid-cat? ” 

‘More than one tiger hunter has trembled before 
the domestic kitten. Isn’t it queer? And another 
oddity—cats usually manifest the greatest affection for 
these same cat-fearers! Is it due to pure contrariness, 
or the streak of sly humour that some cats occasionally 
show in their green eyes? A dog knows instinctively 
when a person dislikes or distrusts it, and in turn 
seems to dislike and distrust the person. But how tell 
about a cat? Dogs are naturally frank and friendly— 
cats are naturally secretive and cold. As Dave, the 
rural-free-deliverer, once said, ‘A dog’ll understand 
everything you say, and try its best to talk man’s talk 
to you; but a cat never wants you to know how much 
she understands, and wouldn’t let on if she knew the 
whole booktionary from kiver to kiver. Wouldn’t be 
a-tall surprised if she does, too! ’” 

‘““ Well, Dad, you’ve sure handed me some new ones 
on Molly and Thomas Tailwaver! ” 

“And, Dick, thinking it all over, doesn’t it seem as 
though we ought to be careful whom we brand a 
coward? ” 


XLVI 


DO THEY LIKE TO BE SICK? 


“They don’t, Dick.” 

‘““Oh, yes, they do, Dad! You can’t have 
noticed. Lots of them brag about it every chance they 
get. It’s a regular game with some of mother’s friends. 
Three or four of them draw their chairs up together, 
and one starts telling how sick she was last Thursday. 
Another interrupts her to say that that was nothing to 
the ‘ spell’ she had two weeks ago Sunday. Then—” 

“TI know. ‘Then it’s a free-for-all, and everybody 
talks at once, and each one remains convinced that she 
was the nearest death’s door, and wonders how the 
rest can make such a time over their silly little 
ailments.” 

“Then you have noticed it, Dad? Yet you said 
that they don’t like to be sick! ” 

“They don’t—but they love to talk about it. The 
best of them are after sympathy and admiration. They 
hope to hear someone say, ‘ Poor dear Mrs. McMarter 
certainly went through a frightful ordeal—but how 
brave she was!’ ‘The worst of them are after the 
thrill that comes to the morbid, when discussing fever 
and pain and disease and operations. Such persons 
are abnormal, so they seek the abnormal in conversa- 
tion. Some queer quirk in their brains makes them 
that way. They’re a pest to every healthy-minded 
person who cannot avoid their gruesome revelations.” 


159 


‘ S AY, Dad, why do persons like to be sick? ” 


160 SAY, DAD! 


“‘Is it always the women, Dad? ” 

“Not always; but men as a class like to be thought 
strong and healthy. After a serious illness, a man may 
tell everyone he meets that he came near passing out; 
but, unless he’s unmanly, he won’t boast of it. 

“The miserable portion of humanity that worries 
and frets continually over its lack of health—often 
without the slightest sensible reason—we call hypo- 
chondriacs. Really they’re slightly demented, and we 
must pity them; but those they afflict with their long 
faces and doleful forebodings deserve more than pity, 
—they ought to be allowed to sue for damages.” 

“They hurt themselves, Dad, but they don’t 
hurt us.” 

“Don’t they, though! If I’m swinging down the 
street some fine crisp morning, happy just to be alive, 
and one of those hark-from-the-tomb individuals stops 
me, and pours into my ears the history of his latest six 
weeks at the hospital, closing his cheerful remarks 
with, ‘ and the day before I was taken there, remember, 
I felt as well as you do this minute! ’—does life look 
as rosy? No, sir; not until I’ve walked far enough to 
drive the gloomy thoughts from my mind by crowding 
in a lot of happy ones. The old pessimist has robbed 
me of half-an-hour’s joy, and ought to be obliged to 
return it with interest.” 

“Mrs. Benthed was telling mother, the other day, 
what a lot of sickness there’d been in her family. I 
heard her say, just as if it was something to be proud 
of, ‘ There isn’t a house for three blocks, on either side 
of the way, that’s held as much sickness as ours! My 
husband came down with pneumonia, and as soon as he 
was well Sylvia contracted typhoid. Then Bobby had 
a terrible attack of scarlet fever, and before he was out 


DO THEY LIKE TO BE SICK? 161 


of bed J gave out, and came within an ace of dying 
from nervous prostration. I guess you never went 
through such a siege as that!’ ‘No,’ said mother, ‘we 
find it pleasanter to keep in such physical condition 
that diseases get little hold upon us.’ ” 

“Your mother spoke in that way, Dick, because she 
knew that the Bentheds eat any old kind of food and 
too much of it, consider exercise a bore, and disregard 
_the necessity for plenty of sleep. Anyone may be taken 
sick, for we’re menaced every minute of the day and 
night by millions of disease devils; but remember this 
—disease is abnormal. It always starts with some- 
one’s wrong living, if not yours. And the best insur- 
ance against its attack is a clean body, inside and out— 
a sensible amount of real nourishment—exercise suf- 
ficient to keep you limber, every inch of you—warm 
sunshine, pure air, and a cheerful heart.” 

“ Well, I can’t see why a chap’d want to brag about 
his body’s being out of order. He isn’t proud of his 
car’s forever breaking down. What’s the idea? ” 

“It comes from the unhealthy desire to be thought 
a martyr, as I say. Ask Uncle Eph how he was, and 
he always made the same reply: ‘ T’anky, suh, Ah’s 
been enjoyin’ po’ health fo’ many yeahs, suh, many 
yeahs! ’” 


XLVII 
AS WE LOOK TO OTHERS 


AY, Dad, why do some folks look such freaks? ” 
S ‘““Of course you’re referring to young folks, 
Dick.” 

“Oh, no, Dad. Old folks like Mr. Mootch.” 

“He isn’t within twenty years of ‘old.’ ” 

‘“‘ Well, maybe not in years; but in looks he’s what 
we boys call ‘an old fussbudget.’ Like so many old 
chaps, he wears his trousers so long they’re all wrinkled 
up over his shoes. What’s the idea, Dad? ”’ 

‘“Why do so many young fellows wear theirs too 
high? ” 

“Tt don’t know. And old Mootch—well, then, Mr. 
Mootch—wears his hair so long it hangs in a fringe 
over his coat collar. Does he think that looks nice? ” 

“What about the younger generation that go 
shingled as high as their ear-tops, looking as though 
they wore skull-caps over bald heads? Do you like 
that style? ” 

“T hate it. What about old fellows with long thin 
turkey necks always wearing very low collars, so loose 
that they don’t touch their throats anywhere,—as if 
they were afraid you wouldn’t see their adam’s-apples 
jumping up and down? Aren’t they fierce? ” 

“Yes. It’s always been a mystery to me why some 
men wear collars that almost rest on their shoulders, 
and some boys wear them so tight that they can hardly 
swallow.” 


162 


AS WE LOOK TO OTHERS 163 


“‘ Say, Dad, you keep coming back at me! What 
about the old chaps whose bow-ties are always 
lop-sided? ” 

‘Maybe they haven’t the time to spend an hour 
tying them, like certain younger chaps I know.” 

‘“‘ Oh, well, then, is there any excuse for the oldsters 
who never shine their shoes? ”’ 

“More than there is for the youngsters who forget 
to polish their heels! ” 

“TI got that, Dad! Well, just because a man 
isn’t young, must he wear wrinkled clothes with no 
style to ’em, and always the same kind, year after 
year? ” 

“Why, no, Dick. But give him credit for not think- 
ing that he must buy the freak syles as often as they 
are advertised,—the awful costumes with crooked 
pockets and wasp-waisted coats and skirt-like panties. 
And he doesn’t discard a good hat simply because the 
foxy hatters have brought out one with a little differ- 
ent brim. And he wears shoes for comfort, and he 
carries a cane for support,—just as you young more-or- 
less heartless critics will do, if you live to be middle- 
aged or older. 

“ But you’re right in this—that many a man in the 
prime of life gets so careless of his looks as to be con- 
sidered a scare-crow, if nothing worse. As the strength 
goes, and the eyesight fails, and the thoughts begin to 
dwell longer upon the yesterdays than the tomorrows 
—as much that has made us careful to look our best 
fades out of the picture—it’s natural to forget the 
clothes-brush and the hat-brush. Keep an eye on me, 
Dick, and don’t let me get sloppy.” 

“No fear of that with you, Dad! I’m all the time 
trying to keep. up with you. But, really, wouldn’t 


164 SAY, DAD! 


some old folks be pleasanter to meet if they’d keep a 
little neater, and all that? ” 

‘“ Pleasanter to meet, and a much better example to 
you comers. Sometimes they’d get along a good deal 
better, themselves. Makes me think of Abner Dolittle, 
who used to be bookkeeper for Colonel Moore at the 
lumber yard. The Colonel was neat as a pin and 
always well-groomed, and demanded smart-looking 
employees about him. Abner had always gotten upon 
his nerves, being one of these touseled-headed, rumple- 
coated individuals, whose wife had to inspect him 
before he left every morning. After Mrs. Dolittle died, 
Abner let himself go, until he was such a tramp in 
appearance that the Colonel fired him. How Abner 
raved about the injustice of it, and swore that he looked 
‘good enough,’ and didn’t intend to be a dude for 
anybody! 

“Now, what do you suppose cured him of his 
slovenly habits, and finally got him back his job? 
Nothing less than seeing himself as others saw him— 
which would jack-up many of us. He saw himself in 
a news-reel, watching some parade or other, and real- 
ized how shabby and careless and entirely unkempt he 
did look. The shock was sufficient to create such a 
change in him, that the Widow Moffat, who had set 
her dog on him the week before, sent him word that 
now that he looked more like a human-being, he could 
call again, and bring the ring along to save time! ” 

“Say, Dad—wouldn’t that make a_ one-reel 
comedy? ” 


XLVIII 


WHAT IS REAL COURTESY? 


vy \ | Y HEN you were a boy, Dad, were you always 
polite? ” 
“T think Little Lord Fauntleroy came 
nearer to winning the title, Dick. What’s up now? ” 

“O, I’m sick and tired of being told how to act! 
Why can’t we all just be natural and let it go at that? ” 

‘“‘ Because it’s natural for a lot of us to be rather 
obnoxious. However, tens of thousands of folks feei 
exactly as you do about it and act accordingly. Why 
don’t you ally yourself with that crowd? They’ll wel- 
come you with open arms.” 

“YT think you’re kidding me, Dad! Where are these 
‘natural’ people? ” 

‘“‘ Almost everywhere. Some of their shining lights 
are always to be found in subway trains. A notable 
example of their kind blocked my exit at Times Square 
the other morning, insisting upon getting into the car 
before I got out of it, although two brass-lunged guards 
were howling: ‘ Let ’em off first!’ ” 

“‘T don’t mean that I want to be like that, Dad.” 

“I know you don’t. Take a gentler case. Five of 
us, tonight, tried to maintain our equilibrium by hold- 
ing on to one of the white-enameled uprights in another 
crowded car; but a young man, who looked as though 
too many cigarettes had weakened his spine, leaned 
back against it, covering all the space any one but a 
giant could reach.” 


165 


166 SAY, DAD! 


“He was one kind of road hog we meet.” 

‘“‘ And it was natural for him to hog all the comfort 
as he rode. When a jerk of the train had pried him 
loose for a second, I took hold in such a way that my 
knuckles gouged unpleasantly into the aforesaid spine. 
He turned around and glared at me as though the sup- 
port were his private property and doubled up a 
wicked-looking fist. Without relaxing my grip and in 
my friendliest manner, I reminded him that the rod 
had been built into the car mot for use as a cot, but for 
something that six or eight hands might clutch. 

‘““Now, jumping right into the heart of the subject, 
Dick, just what is politeness? Rather, what is cour- 
tesy? For that’s what your mother and I wish to 
become natural to you.” 

“ Why—er—not acting like a rough-neck, and—” 

‘“‘ Courtesy is the showing of consideration for others. 
Back of it, to say the least, must be a sense of justice— 
‘You have some rights as well as I’—and common 
sense that tells us what a state of pandemonium we’d 
be in if no one gave a thought to law and order; but 
the truest courtesy springs from a genuine feeling of 
kindliness for our fellow men. It’s the Golden Rule, 
prompted by the heart as well as the mind.” 

‘“That’s all so, of course, Dad; but I was kicking 
against the hundreds of little things a fellow’s supposed 
to remember, like going upstairs ahead of a lady—” 

‘More easily to protect her from anyone or any- 
thing coming down.” 

‘“¢ And down an aisle behind her—” 

“‘ Because there’s an usher ahead.” 

‘Well, why do we take off our hats and shake 
hands? How’d the idea ever start? ” 

‘“‘ A man’s ‘ hat’ used to be part of his armour, often 


WHAT IS REAL COURTESY? 167 


protecting his face, as you must know. He never re- 
moved it in the presence of an enemy—if he could help 
it. Holding out the empty hand proved that it held no 
weapon. Don’t you see, Dick, that all these little cus- 
toms have sense back of them? ” 

“T begin to, Dad. Being polite—I mean courteous 
—will be more interesting after this. What about 
touching a napkin to my lips every time before I drink. 
That seems—” 

‘“‘ Do you like to see a greasy mark left on a glass? ” 

“That’s so. And I must say, ‘I beg your pardon! ’ 
as I climb past the knees of people at a show.” 

“You must zot/ ‘That expression is now considered 
only one point better than the awful ‘ Pleased to 
meecha! ’ we used to hear. ‘Sorry! ’ is not only proper 
but sensible. One can hardly be pardoned who has 
not been sentenced. 

“The most punctilious observance of the rules of 
etiquette will never make a gentleman of a boor; but 
the disregard of them may make even the gentleman 
conspicuous and awkward. They are among the nice- 
ties of life, and when known and understood and prac- 
tised naturally serve to oil the machinery of social 
intercourse so that we—” 

“Don’t hear the grinding of the wheels! How’s 
that, Dad? Am I right there with the meta- 
metaphorical stuff? Am I?” 

“‘ Amazingly so, Dick—amazingly so! ” 


XLIX 
IS SELF-ESTEEM A GOOD THING? 


* AY, Dad, is self-esteem a good thing to have? ” 
% “Tt is, if your self is worth esteeming.” 
‘“‘ Now youre mixing me all up! ” 

“TI only mean, if you possess worth-while qualities, 
you surely ought to respect them; but it’s a bad thing 
to be proud of your faults and failings. For instance, 
a naturally honest man will hold his honesty—all hon- 
esty—in high esteem. So high, perhaps, that he would 
sooner part with life than with integrity. That is good. 
It gives him dignity and self-reliance. It keeps him 
true to himself. On the other hand, I know men who > 
boast of wrongdoing—who take pride in living lives 
that turn men into beasts and before many years 
destroy them.” 

“How can they be proud of that, Dad? ” 

“T don’t know, Dick. One has to be like that to 
understand. How can a boy delight in being cruel to a 
dumb beast? Some defect, some queer quirk in his 
brain, distorts his ideas of what is decent and what is 
indecent. But, putting aside degenerates, every one 
should have sufficient self-esteem to make him shrink 
from doing what is unmanly, unkind, untrue.” 

‘“‘T had an idea that a chap with much self-esteem 
was stuck on himself.” 

“With too much, yes. Such a person doesn’t stop 
with respecting the decency within him, but goes on to 
bow down to himself as superior to his fellow men. 


168 


IS SELF-ESTEEM A GOOD THING? 169 


Before long he’s his only admirer, though often he’s too 
foolish to know it.” 

“IT suppose the worst mut thinks something of 
himself.” 

‘“‘ A man can get to where he has no respect for him- 
self. Nothing is too low for him, nothing shames him. 
You can’t encourage him to effort, you can’t insult him; 
for he’s already concluded that he’s no good, that he’s 
hopeless. To me, that’s the saddest sight in life.” 

“ But, Dad, isn’t there even one little bit of—of— 
something left to take hold of in such a poor fellow? ” 

“‘T believe there always is, Dick. That’s what is 
meant by the Salvation Army slogan, ‘A man may be 
down, but he is never out.’ Finding that something, 
though, and grasping it tightly enough to pull the man 
up is usually some job! And a long one; for the soul 
that has been slipping down, down, down for years 
finds the climb back very steep and rough.” 

““T don’t see how a fellow comes to lose all his self- 
respect, Dad. Does it go all at once? ” 

‘““No, indeed. That isn’t the devil’s way. He knows 
perfectly well that even a morally weak chap would 
balk at crime at first. So he’s careful to suggest the 
little steps, at first, that don’t seem to count. But they 
all lead downward. Did I ever tell you about Len 
Hagert? ” 

“Did he work for you? ” 

‘““No. He was a bank messenger who was held up 
while taking forty thousand dollars in bills to another 
bank. The robber attacked him on a dark side street, 
hauled him into a cellar, threw him into a corner, 
lighted a bit of candle, and sat down to count the 
money. Len got back his breath and began to talk. 
The bandit didn’t care. 


170 SAY, DAD! 


“<This is going to hurt the bank a great deal,’ 
said Len. 

“‘¢ What do I care about the bank? ’ asked the thief. 

“< Tt isn’t a well-fixed bank,’ went on Len, ‘ and this 
will hurt many poor depositors.’ 

‘‘“ Poor or rich,’ was the reply, ‘ the depositors don’t 
concern me.’ 

“““Tt’s going to be mighty hard on me,’ Len said. 
‘It'll cost me my job, and God only knows when. or 
how I’ll get another at my age.’ 

‘“““ What becomes of you don’t interest me one bit,’ 
returned the young man. 

‘““¢ But none will suffer more than my delicate wife 
and my little daughter,’ declared Len in the same 
quiet way. 

““* They ain’t my wife and daughter, are they?’ 
laughed the other. ‘Let ’em get out and earn their 
livings.’ 

““ The little girl is stone blind,’ said Len, and buried 
his face in his hands. For some moments there wasn’t 
a sound. Then the young man shook the old man and 
handed him his bag. 

“** Take your cash and beat it! ’ he growled. ‘I’m | 
against the world, as the world’s always been against 
me. I’m a thief, and I ain’t ashamed of it. But if I 
was hard on the blind, I’d jump into the river to forget 
it. My brother got his in France—I know what Tt 
means. Tell that poor kid of yours you met a bad egg, 
but he hadn’t gotten to where he could hurt the likes 
of her. Now skip, before I’m worse! ’ 

“You see, Dick, one grain of self-esteem, if you like, 
counted more than forty thousand dollars to that rob- 
ber who held them both. What is it worth to you 
and me? ” 


L 


THE TRUE VALUE OF FAME 


“Famous for what, Dick? ” 

“Oh, for anything,—so that the papers would 
praise you, and the people cheer you and put up 
statues of you, and all that.” 

““Oh, my, yes! And I took pleasure in picturing 
myself being interviewed by eager reporters, after 
some great and brave deed, and modestly disclaiming 
any desire for the plaudits of the crowd, ‘ because I 
did no more than my simple duty! ’” 

“What did you think of doing, that would be so 
great? ” 

“Well, rescuing large families from the top stories 
of burning buildings; refusing to leave my ship till the 
ocean reached my ears; capturing at least a battalion 
of the enemy, single-handed; quelling riots by my fiery 
eloquence and the fearless flash of my eagle eye! ” 

“Say, Dad, when was all this—lately? ” 

“Not so very. I must have been about your age.” 

“Now youre teasing! I mean when—well, when 
you were a young man.” 

“‘ By that time, while secretly wishing to be a hero, 
my immediate longings were more concerned with earn- 
ing enough money to buy a home for your mother and 
me. And I’d come to realize that that humble under- 
taking might require greater heroism than facing fire, 
flood and shot.” 


SS Dad, did you ever long to be famous? ” 


171 


172 SAY, DAD! 


“By this time, I suppose you don’t have even a 
secret wish to do ‘deeds of valour,’ as my reader 
calls ’em.” 

“You needn’t mention the fact to your mother— 
though ten to one she knows it!—but the thought of 
leading forlorn hopes is just as dazzling to me as it 
ever was. Many a man has large wreaths laid an- 
nually upon his grave, who never did anything half so 
difficult or nerve-racking as filling out an income-tax 
report—and sending in the impoverishing check. But, 
holding the hungry lion by the tail while the school 
children escape is much more delightful—to think of, 
anyway.” 

“Well, I want to be a hero,—and I know I’ll always 
feel that way.” 

“But experience with the ways of this old world, 
Dick, and acquaintance with its inhabitants, will 
weaken your desire for the ‘ plaudit’ part. Work and 
pray to be brave, strong, alert, self-sacrificing, so that 
if the great moment does come in your life, you will do 
your great deed without shirking; but do mot set great 
store upon the cheers of the mob, which is of all created 
things the most fickle. Those who throw roses today, 
will be ready with rocks tomorrow. Dream of splendid 
service all the days of your life. Jump in ‘ where 
angels fear to tread.’ But do it to help your fellow- 
creatures, to elevate your soul, and to serve God. 

‘When you come to think of it, being labelled A 
_ Hero proves nothing, anyway,—except that you hap- 
pened to be noticed by the public. It’s more or less 
of an example of what advertising may do. For in- 
stance, your schoolhouse takes fire. You and Jimmy, 
like the good scouts you are, help the girls and the 
smaller children into safety. One whom Jimmy carries 


a - 


THE TRUE VALUE OF FAME 173 


out chances to be the child of Mayor Whozis, and 
Jimmy’s picture goes into the newspapers and on the 
screens as ‘The Schoolboy Hero!’ You, who were 
fully as brave and helpful, go unsung—for opportunity 
wasn’t there to give you publicity.” 

“Then I suppose, Dad, not half the real heroes are 
ever heard of, are they? ” 

“How can they be? Do you suppose one-hundredth 
of the heroic deeds in the last war, or one-thousandth, 
were seen and reported and acclaimed? Those that 
happened so as to be brought to public notice brought 
cheers to their doers. And real heroes are not apt to 
advertise themselves, Dick.”’ 

“One thing I’ve never understood, Dad, is why a 
soldier is any more of a hero because he got killed. I 
mean when he wasn’t risking any more or doing any 
more than the men around him—only ke drops and the 
others don’t. They talk about Will Lorton’s having 
made the ‘supreme sacrifice.’ I can’t see that he 
meant to give any more for the flag than his brother 
Fred did, who came home again. Both offered their 
lives, and one was taken.” 

“You are right, Dick. That’s the way God must 
see it. So. now you understand why fame so often 
depends upon circumstances, and is a poor prize to 
strive for. Do your best for the sake of the doing, and 
be content.” 


LI 


THAT BIG WORD “OPTIMISM ” 


“What about them, Dick? ” 

‘“‘T’ve been reading one’s as bad as the other. 
Folks that are always expecting the worst to happen, it 
Says, are spreading gloom wherever they go; but those 
who always expect the best are broadcasting false 
hopes doomed to disappointment. Well, then, what’s 
a fellow to do, if it’s foolish to be either? ”’ 

“A friend of mine claims to be a meliorist.” 

“Gee! What’s that funny word mean? ” 

“Next year when you begin Latin, you'll find that 
bonus, melior, optimus, mean, ‘ good, better, best.” 
So, if an optimist always expects the best to happen, 
and a pessimist always expects the worst, a meliorist 
must look for better times. In other words, he avoids 
the extremes, while expecting more sunshine than 
storm.” 

‘“‘ Well, /’m going to be sure of nothing less than the 
best, Dad! I don’t like this half-way idea.” 

‘““At your age, extreme optimism is normal. We 
begin by dreaming wonderful dreams of what we’ll 
accomplish in life, and we think all we need is the will 
to do and application. Afterward, comes a time of dis- 
couragement. We find that ‘ getting there’ is much 
harder than we imagined,—that there are many things 
to overcome, many battles to win, that we’d never 
counted upon, or even heard of. 


174 


ih S AY, Dad, what about optimists and pessimists? ” 


THAT BIG WORD “OPTIMISM ” 175 


“It’s right there that the weakling drops out, and 
the real man sets his teeth and plugs away harder than 
ever. Later in life ought to come a period of satisfac- 
tion that things are as good as they are, when experi- 
ence has helped us get a better slant upon the real 
values of accomplishment.” 

“When you were a boy, Dad, what did you 
dream? ” 

“At seven, I wanted to be a sailor. That is, I 
wanted to wear a nice blue sailor-suit, and dance horn- 
pipes on the deck of a spotless ship,—and probably 
change suits and positions with the captain, like Ralph 
Rackstraw in ‘ Pinafore.’ At fourteen, I decided to be 
a great musical composer, and lead my own orchestra, 
a la Victor Herbert. The need of remarkable talent 
in music, as well as a lifetime of intense study and 
practice didn’t occur to me until later.” 

“Well, /’m going to do big things, anyway! ” 

“A boy will accept nothing in the way of a future 
_but the best, the highest, the most renowned. Tell him 
that only one in a million has the brains and the hardi- 
hood to reach the very top, and he'll say, ‘ That’s all 
right—I’m that one!’ Tell him that, while a thousand- 
acre estate and a twenty-thousand dollar car may not 
reward his endeavours, life may still be considered a 
success if at fifty he owns a three-story brick house 
and a flivver—and he’ll look at you with pity, deplor- 
ing the fact that you lack his ambition and splendid 
ideals.”’ 

“ But, Dad, I know I can get the very best! ” 

“I hope so, Dick—the ultimate best. But don’t be 
discouraged if the bull’s-eye proves to be harder to hit 
than it seemed. I expect you to be graduated from 
school with honours, one of these days,—but I’m not 


176 SAY, DAD! 


so extreme an optimist as to count on your getting one- 
hundred percent in every lesson until then.” 

“T see, Dad. Pollyanna and Mrs. Wiggs, instead 
of admitting they were up against it, and being brave 
about it, made believe everything was lovely, and went 
around wearing silly grins all the time.” 

“In baseball, you. get the best players you can, 
practise hard, play the game for all you’re worth, and 
hope to win. If you don’t,—well, having done your 
level best is the big thing, after all. Just so with life. 
Put into it the best you have of body, mind and spirit, 
and hope for the realization of your highest dreams. 
If what comes looks small and pale beside your dream- 
picture, remember that what counts most is having 
done your best, and having stood unafraid and 
undismayed.” 

‘Well, I’ve been kind of pessimistic about tomor- 
row’s home-work, I guess; but I’m going to go at it 
after dinner with meliorism (is that right?) anyway! ” 

“ That’s the spirit, Dick! We’ll go at it together, 
though I have to put off this correspondence till an- 
other time. And, to encourage our optimism, there 
comes the odour of biscuits spang out of the oven, 
mingled with that of luscious baked ham! I declare, 
I’m not sure but that I’m an extreme optimist, after 
allt; 


LII 
DICK HAS A QUEER DREAM 


“ AY, Dad, are your dreams ever wonderful? ” 
S “‘ Often—until the cold light of day strikes 
them.” 

“‘T certainly had a queer one last night. I went to 
sleep wondering why there’s so much work to be done 
in this world.” 

“Your home-work was a bit weighty, I remember— 
and so was the pudding at dinner.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t only that, Dad. I was thinking how 
nearly everybody has to work all his life, and often 
very hard, just to have a place to sleep in, clothes to 
wear, food to eat, and a little fun.” 

“Youre beginning early, Dick, to philosophize 
about life. That’s all right,—but be sure you balance 
the bitter with plenty of sweet. How did this won- 
derful dream begin? ” 

‘Why, I found myself walking along a street in a 
strange city. It was morning, and a clock in a tower 
said quarter of nine; so I thought I’d better hurry to 
school. A tired-looking man was leaning over a gate, 
and I asked him where the school was. ‘School?’ he 
repeated. ‘ The last school was closed when we’d been 
taught all there is to know. As we all know every- 
thing, you must know that!’ 

“T thought the man was crazy. Pretty soon I felt 
very hungry, and realized that I’d had no breakfast. 
The gloomiest-looking woman I ever saw was sitting 


177 


178 _ SAY, DAD! 


on a porch, with her hands turned palms-up in her 
lap. I asked her to tell me where I could get some- 
thing to eat. ‘To eat?’ she replied, not even raising 
her head. ‘ Since they discovered how to make the air 
nourish us, there’s been no eating or drinking; and so 
no raising or cooking of food. You must be from 
another world, not to know that.’ 

“TI didn’t know what to think, and began to feel 
mighty queer! All of a sudden, I realized that I was 
in my pajamas. No one seemed to notice it, but I ran 
over to a tailor’s shop, and asked a man who was 
staring sadly out of the door, about getting some 
clothes. ‘Clothes?’ he mumbled. ‘Since the inven- 
tion of cloth that never wears out, I haven’t even heard 
the word. Where do you come from? ’ 

“Gee! I felt creepy, I can tell you! A block away 
I noticed a row of half-built houses, and lots of men 
standing and sitting and lying around. When I came 
to them, I saw that every one looked weary of life, or 
just blank. When I asked the least sleepy-looking of 
them why they all were doing nothing, he answered, 
without even glancing toward me, ‘ There’s been 
nothing for us builders to do since material stopped 
rusting and decaying and coming apart. Where have 
you been since work was abolished? ’ 

‘“‘T didn’t know what to say to that. But I did know 
I wanted most awfully to get out of that unhappy city, 
where nobody seemed to do a thing but keep miserable. 
So I asked where I could get a car to take me away— 
anywhere. ‘ There’s no longer any reason for going 
anywhere,’ said the man, dully. ‘ What difference does 
it make where anyone is, when there’s nothing doing, 
and nothing to be done? ’ 

‘““ By that time, I began to feel as gloomy and dis- 


DICK HAS A QUEER DREAM __ 179 


couraged as the rest of them; but I couldn’t imagine 
just sitting down and staring at nothing, as they did. 
So I hurried through the dead streets until I came to a 
house where someone was crying inside. The door was 
open, and I walked right into a big living-room. Ona 
couch sat a girl, rocking back and forth, with her 
hands over her eyes. I asked her why she cried. She 
said, ‘ There’s nothing else to do, any more! Every- 
thing does itself, or else is done for good and all. I 
used to love to clean and dust—but things don’t tarnish, 
and dust has been destroyed. I used to love to cook 
and to set dainty tables—but no one eats. I used to 
love to make my pretty clothes—but there’s no more 
goods, and no one cares. I loved my garden—but now 
the flowers never change. Even the lawn stays clipped, 
forever! ’ 

«Say, I cried, grabbing one of her hands, and 
pulling her toward the door, ‘ you come along with me 
—understand? I don’t know where we are nor how 
to get away; but, believe me, we’ll just keep on going 
until we come to a place where there’s work to do,— 
w-o-r-k, WORK! I used to think it was a kind of 
punishment. Now I see it’s just the bulliest thing in 
all the world. Come along! ’ 

“ Well, Dad, I jumped out of that door-way so far 
that I fell out of bed. And the sight of my school- 
books was so good, that I took ’em back to bed 
with me! ” 

“That was a rather wonderful dream, Dick. I’m 
going to put it into writing so that you'll never forget 
a bit of it! ” 


LIIl 
FAILURE AND SUCCESS 


“In business, Dick? ” 

“Yes,—and in professions and everything. 
My teacher told us to talk it over with our fathers, and 
make up our minds whether it’s from lack of ambition, 
or what? ” 

“From what I have seen of life, I’d lay forty-five 
percent of the failures mot to unambition, but to lack 
of forethought. For instance, take Joe Ganning. 
When he got out of high school—after an awful strug- 
gle, for Joe never took to study, and print faded from 


v Sie Dad, why do so many men fail? ” 


his memory like sixty—he refused to go into his © 


father’s carpenter shop, and said he was going to be a 


lawyer. If he hadn’t the sense to know that for success — 


in law he needed a logical, analytical mind and a re- 


tentive memory, anyone could have told him so. His 


father and his teachers tried to, but Joe had his way; 
and today he’s taking tickets at a cheap movie show.” 
“Why doesn’t he go with his father now? ” 


“‘ Because his pig-headedness kept him striving for — 


the impossible until the old man died and the carpenter 
shop passed into other hands, for debt. Now, with 
Herb Ross it was different. He was a born business 
man, so far as natural ability to buy and sell to ad- 
vantage was concerned; but he let an attractively low 
rental blind him to the fact that the butcher shop he 
opened was on a block few shoppers frequented, while 


180 


Oe a 


5 


: 


: 


5 
: 


~~ aie 


y 


FAILURE AND SUCCESS 181 


around the corner was a thriving meat shop right next 
to the town’s most popular grocery. He failed.” 

“Isn’t that his big store on Main Street? ”’ 

“Oh, yes; he learned after a while. Then there was 
Frank Fox, who failed in two or three lines because 
anyone could overload him with goods. Carried away 
by the near-eloquence of a travelling salesman, Frank 
would order twice as much of a thing as he could sell 
before it got stale or old-fashioned. He never did 
learn. As a clerk in Partridge’s stationery store he’s 
all right.” 

“That chap that opened the cut-rate clothing store 
on Walnut Street didn’t last long, Dad.” 

“Of course not. A little common-sense forethought 
would have told him that people in that section of town 
don’t buy cheap clothes,—except in the sense that the 
best are cheapest in the end. In the month that he 
stuck it out, I’m told, he had but two customers. One 
gave him a wrong address, and the other a counterfeit 
bill. You see, none of these men started in business 
without ambition. They jumped in with the determi- 
nation to win, but they didn’t look before they leaped. 
Why, before locating an establishment nowadays, the 
successful concerns make an exhaustive study of the 
entire situation. Suppose they have a certain site in 
mind. Is it on the side of the way where the crowds 
usually trail along? About how many persons a day 
may be counted upon to look in their windows? Are 
they the class of buyers this concern is after? How 
near are competing.stores? And a hundred other 
points are considered—points that may mean failure 
or success.” 

“Then, ambition with forethought, Dad, always 
wins? ” 


182 SAY, DAD! 


“Not a bit of it! Forethought, like all thinking, to 
be valuable must be founded on fact instead of sur- 
mise. This is what I mean: No matter how carefully 
a man plans to be a successful merchant or minister or 


musician, he’ll fail if he isn’t built for that particular — 


job. Down in New York’s so-called Bohemia, Green- — 


wich Village, are any number of men and women, boys 
and girls, struggling to become known as artists and 
writers. Lots of them have all the ambition in the 
world and are perfectly convinced of their ability to 
win out. They work as hard as they can, laugh at 
repeated failures, and starve bravely. But hardly one 
percent of them can succeed, because they simply 
haven’t it in them. ‘Their work is too poor to sell, 
though it seems wonderful to them. Some will just 
manage to live, some will give up, some will literally 
die trying.” 

‘“‘ All right, Dad—now I’ve got it! In order to be 
a good high-jumper, for instance, a fellow must first 
have the right kind of muscles for that kind of thing; 
then he must learn exactly how to get over the bar— 
that’s forethought; and last, he must have the ambition 
to practice hard. How’s that? ” 

“TI call that pretty good, Dick. In the beginning I 
‘ said I’d lay forty-five percent of the failures to impru- 


dence, if you like. Another forty-five percent I’d lay 


to lack of grit,—the quality that enables us to fight on 
no matter how hard and disappointing the game. The 
remaining ten percent seem to fail because of circum- 
stances beyond their control.” 

“Thanks, Dad. Now I must tackle that grammar 
with forethought and grit—or circumstances will keep 
me in after school! ” 


a 


«Ge (OOo =e 


i oo 


LIV 
THE VERY LITTLE SINS 


ELL me about this temptation stuff, Dad.” 
“What about it, Dick? ” 
“Ts it always liable to get a fellow, no mat- 
ter how square he’s been? ” 

“No-siree! Don’t you believe it.” 

“But here’s this man in the paper, Dad, all of a 
sudden commits the most terrible crimes; and it says 
he’d always been kind and gentle and everything—all 
his life. Can’t a fellow ever be sure of himself until 
he’s dead? ” 

‘“1’m glad you asked me, Dick; for that’s something 
each one of us ought to understand while he’s young, 
and never forget. Our actions depend upon our char- 
acters—not our reputations. And our characters are 
temples that we are building each day of our lives. On 
any day, whether in boyhood, youth, middle age or old 
age, these temples are just as strong as we have made 
them. When one of them suddenly collapses—no mat- 
ter how sturdy it may have looked—you may be sure 
it held some poor material, or that it wasn’t exactly 
plumb.” 

“ But, Dad, aren’t good folks tempted? ” 

“Sometimes the best seem to be tempted the 
most, Dick. The highest structures have to with- 
stand the fiercest gales. We’re all tempted in little 
ways, I suppose, every day. Each time we resist, 
we strengthen the wall with another sound stone set 


183 


184 SAY, DAD! 


firm and true; each time we give in, we weaken the 
wall with a cracked or crumbly block that doesn’t 
quite fit. This shoddy material is usually tucked in 
behind the fine facing, where it doesn’t show; and 
maybe no one but the builder knows it’s there—and 
he tries to fool himself with the hope that it’s ‘ good 
enough.’ ” 

“Gee, Dad—but I’d think he would keep worrying 
about it! ” 

‘He does at first. If he’s the right kind, he tries to 
dig out the miserable stuff and set in a solid piece. 
This is often very hard indeed to accomplish, some- 
times impossible. But if he’s like many, he'll let it go; 
and next time he’s tempted to substitute bad material, 
the trick will come easier, and he’ll worry less. If he 
keeps on in this way, before long all he’ll think about 
will be the looks of his temple—his reputation. But, 
as a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, so a 
structure is no sturdier than its hidden material. Some 
day the storms come, and the temple is a wreck; and 
people wonder how such a well-built edifice could fall 
so easily! ” 

“In a store window I saw a motto that read, ‘ The 
devil accepts small payments.’ ” 

“In other words, it’s but a short leap between sins. 
We're tempted to do just a little bit of sinning, then - 
another little bit, and then another—till we’ve gone a 
long way before we know it. That was the way with 
Jonas the Blacksmith.” 

“What did he do, Dad? ” 

‘Why, he was one of your men of splendid reputa- 
tion who suddenly scandalized our whole town by 
cleaning out the First National Bank. That was a 
good many years ago, and Jonas has long been dead; 


THE VERY LITTLE SINS 185 


but I'll wager the story is being told this minute, some- 
where around the town. 

‘ Jonas Applegate had ‘ grown up with the town,’ as 
they say, and was called the kindest and squarest man 
in it. If you had to owe him for shoeing the old mare, 
he’d say, ‘ That’s all right, friend, it’ll be just as good 
when I get it! ’ If your cow got sick in the night, call 
him up and he’d drive any distance with a wonderful 
cure—all he had—and never ask a cent for doing it. 
Well, it took the combined evidence of Jonas’ disap- 
pearance and his very tools beside the looted safe to 
make us lose our faith in his sterling honesty.” 

“* Did they ever catch him, Dad? ” 

“Before he’d gone a hundred miles. I visited him 
in jail. This is what he said to me: ‘I’m telling the 
God’s truth, neighbour, when I swear that I’m as sur- 
prised to find myself a thief as you can be. I always 
looked upon robbery as about the meanest, lowest act 
a man could sink to.. Yet, here I am, and I deserve all 
they’ll give me. You're the only one who hasn’t harped 
on my falling from grace so suddenly—so I’m telling 
you there wasn’t anything sudden about it. For years 
I’ve been getting nearer and nearer to this act, without 
suspecting it. How? By wandering off the straight 
track just a little, then a little more, and so on. First 
I let a rich man overpay me, and didn’t tell him; com- 
forting my conscience with the fact that he didn’t need 
it. Then I made a key for aman. He didn’t tell me 
what it was for, but I knew it fit his brother’s cash 
drawer. I made believe it was none of my business. 
Other things followed, till to my own surprise I wasn’t 
above doing this thing. And here I am! ’” 

“No sins are very little, are they, Dad? ” 


LV 
STORING UP MEMORIES 


‘““1’m sure I don’t know. Can it? ” 

“‘Tsn’t the brain just flesh? I saw a coloured 
model of what’s inside our skulls, and it looked like 
under-done veal, or a nestful of gray snakes.” 

“But our brains do not think, Dick.” 

“Now, Dad! What does think, then? ” 

“Our minds. The real, imperishable WE. Brains 
are telephone central stations, with nerve-lines running 
to every part of our bodies. We call, ‘ Maxillaries 
one-ate-for-two,’ (if very hungry! ), and give the order, 
‘Get busy now and masticate the supplies I’m going to 
fork up!’ ‘At once, sir! ’ comes the reply, and we 
begin to eat.” 

“So that’s all the brain is, Dad? ” 

“By no means. It’s the world’s largest filing- 
system. Every thought that comes to us in this life, 
so science tells us, is stored away in its proper com- 
partment, ready to be taken out and used again.” 

“T can’t see that, Dad; for J can’t remember half 
the things I’ve thought of. Can you? ” 

“Not a tenth part. But that’s because I don’t 
possess a perfect filing-cabinet, and probably haven’t 
paid sufficient attention to the thoughts before tucking 
them away. Nevertheless, I believe that they’re all 
there; and that the worst as well as the best of them 
will face me some day.” 


Ss AY, Dad, how can a piece of meat think? ” 


186 


STORING UP MEMORIES 187 


“Gee! Then a fellow’d better be pretty careful to 
sidestep the bad ones. Some of ’em come along though, 
Dad, without any invitation from me.” 

“‘ In a world of mixed good and evil they’re bound to 
sneak into our minds; but remember this,—the more 
clean ones you file away, the less space there will be for 
the soiled ones! You'll often hear a certain class of 
persons say, ‘ Well, but I can’t help what I think, you 
know.’ To a certain degree, we can’t help meeting 
very obnoxious persons; but that doesn’t necessitate 
our becoming friendly with them, and asking them 
around to the house for dinner, does it? Bad folks 
and bad thoughts have a way of clinging to us unless 
we discourage them at the very start of the acquaint- 
ance. Treat them with the least bit of consideration, 
and they’ll be turning up to spoil many an otherwise 
unsullied day.” 

“T see that, Dad. But tell me—what makes anyone 
think that we never can quite forget anything? Seems 
to me there must be lots of thoughts that skip through 
a chap’s head, and are gone forever.” 

‘““One reason is, that many persons supposedly at 
the point of death have ‘seen their whole lives pass 
before them,’ as it is expressed. Doubtless in many 
cases they have remembered both words and actions 
that had been forgotten for a very long time. The 
excitement of the moment stimulated some long- 
neglected brain-cells, and the old scenes flashed back 
upon the brain.” 

“ Like taking an old film out of storage, and screen- 
ing it again, Dad? ” 

‘The very idea! ‘Then, another reason we believe 
that every thought is preserved,—sometimes when 
groping into the past, we call to mind some little occur- 


188 SAY, DAD! 


rence forgotten for half a life-time, and this brings 
back a long train of memories. A while ago, happen- 
ing upon the death notice of a dearly loved teacher of 
a private school I attended before I was your age, 
Dick, I fell to day-dreaming of the boys and girls I 
used to play and study with. At first only a few of 
their faces came back to me, and hardly any of their 
names. But, little by little, I found myself sitting at 
my old desk in Bradislee School, and out of the mist 
of years appeared the chubby face of my particular 
chum, Charlie Brooks—and I remembered the day 
when he had injured his knee at leapfrog. 

“Then into the room came rollicking Jamie Weir, 
with a bouquet of flowers from his father’s shop, for 
teacher, of course. Yes, and then I saw something 
that surely had become a dead memory, did memories 
ever die,—finding pretty little Bessie Miller at the 
desk, instead of the teacher, the rascal put his arm 
about her neck and kissed her on the cheek! I saw 
it as plainly as though it had happened yesterday,— 
even to the fade-out, which was Bessie crying with 
embarrassment! ” 

‘“‘T guess that proves your case, Dad. Then the 
brain is a telephone exchange and a filing-cabinet, and 
that’s all.” 

“Not a bit of it! But you can’t expect an exhaus- 
tive dissertation upon the brain in a five-minute talk. 
Besides, it’s barely possible that I couldn’t give one.” 

“‘ Anyway, Dad, it’s time we phoned our maxiwhat- 
youcallems! ” 


LVI 
WE ALL ARE IDEALISTS 


idealist? ”’ 
“In some respects. Why?” 

“Then it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Dad? ” 

“That’s a funny one! Suppose you explain 
a bit.” 

“Well, a fellow at school wanted me to do some- 
thing I wouldn’t do. He demanded the reason. I 
said: ‘O, that isn’t the kind of a guy I’m trying to be, 
that’s all.’ And he sneered: ‘So you're a silly ideal- 
ist, eh?’ ” 

“IT see. Now, Dick, have you looked up what our 
good friend, Noah Webster, has to say about that 
word? ” 

“‘* That which is conceived or taken as a standard 
of excellence or ultimate object of attainment.’ ” 

“In other words, your ideal is your idea of perfec- 
tion. In any case, it may be far from perfection— 
remember—but the nearest to it that you can imagine. 
In order to conceive of a thing in its perfection, as I 
take it, you’d have to be a perfect being yourself. Is 
this plain, Dick? ” 

“Sure, Dad. That’s the idea I had till the fellow 
sneered; then I began to wonder.” 

“‘In the broadest sense, we’re all idealists. That is, 
we all carry brain pictures of what we most admire. 
Your schoolmate’s idea of what is fine in boyhood 


189 


of Giz Dad, when you were a boy, were you an 


190 SAY, DAD! 


probably isn’t as high as your idea; so he tried to 
shame you into coming down to his level. You must 
be prepared for that sort of thing all through life. 
Never lower your standards, Dick! ” 

“Say, Dad, isn’t it like Old Glory? While one 
soldier lowers it from the staff, another gathers it in 
his arms so that it won’t touch the ground.” 

‘“‘ A splendid simile! Keep that figure in mind, my 
boy, when anyone suggests dragging your standards in 
the dirt. But be careful not to get cocky over your 
personal ideas of what is best and highest. Your dest 
may seem pretty poor to someone else. In court I once 
heard a woman testify that she’d never ask for a better 
husband than the one under arrest for beating her. 
‘Timmy never thinks of layin’ a hand on me,’ she 
proudly exclaimed, ‘ while he’s sober! ’ 

‘“‘T once knew a man, named Walters, in the fire in- 
surance business. I knew him to be a faithful hus- 
band, a loving father, and an ever-ready friend to those 
in need. His reputation was of the highest, and I took 
it for granted that his business ethics were the same. 
One day he was telling me of a fire in one of New 
York’s mansions, in which it was claimed that a 
$25,000 painting was burned. 

““ But I don’t believe we’ll pay Mrs. Dash a cent,’ © 
he said with satisfaction. 

‘““* Wasn’t it covered by insurance in your com- 
pany? ’ I asked. 

““* Yes, indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘ But we’ll contest the 
claim; and I don’t think there’s enough of the canvas 
left to prove it’s part of the picture insured.’ 

“< Then you think there may have been a sub- 
stitution? ’ 

“Qh, no; the insured picture was destroyed, un- 


WE ALL ARE IDEALISTS 191 


doubtedly,’ he admitted, ‘ but we never pay a claim if 
we can help it.’ 

““* Do you call that honest?’ I asked. 

“*T call that dusiness!’ he replied. ‘ You’re not a 
business man; so you don’t understand.’ ” 

“Say, Dad, we’re not insured in his company, 
are we? ”’ 

“No. But the funny part is that we were then, 
though he didn’t seem to remember the fact. But, if 
that branch of business, as well as every other, were 
not run on a fair and square basis, as a whole, we’d 
have little of the safety and protection that we enjoy 
in America today. 

‘‘ Speaking of ideals not being necessarily very high, 
I am reminded of the lament of a good old soul known 
as Irish Norah. ‘A mither niver knows,’ she used to 
sigh, ‘ whether her b’y’ll break a record or break her 
heart! Take my Dinnis. Whin he was knee-high to 
a cake o’ soap, Mike got him a little pair o’ gloves, an’ 
thim two ust to scrap all over me bed, Mike makin’ 
belave be knocked out an’ the kid countin’ up to tin 
as fasht as his bit of a tongue could go. Be the time 
he was in long pants, Dinnis had hands on him like two 
hods o’ bricks an’ tuck no lip from anny one in the 
ward. “ It’s a champeen our son’ll be,” sez Mike, “ an’ 
you an’ me’ll hold up our heads with the bist in the 
land!’ Then the war comes, an’ oversays Dinnis 
meets up wid a gurl that gits him studyin’ books, mind 
yer. An’ now he’s sittin’ in a orfice wid a stiff collar 
on an’ sez fightin’ ain’t respictible! An’ us thinkin’ all 
the time that he was a lad of high i-deals!’ ” 


LVII 
SPIRITUAL THINKING 


i AY, Dad, are women better than men? ” 
S ‘‘Some of them, Dick. What makes you 
wonder? ”’ 

‘“¢ So many more of them go to church.” 

“ Church-going is no proof of goodness,—though 
religious services must be rather uncomfortable occa- 
sions for the evil-doer, until he’s choked his conscience 
to death.” 

“Can we do that, Dad? ” 

‘Yes, indeed. Keep grabbing it by the throat every 
time it warns us that we’re doing wrong, and its voice 
grows weaker and weaker. Persist in this treatment 
long enough, and finally conscience is dead, and we’re 
free to work destruction upon ourselves and others 
without mercy or shame.” 

“Well, if so many of them attending church services, 
and all that, doesn’t prove that women are better than 
men, Dad, what does it prove? ” 

“It indicates that the average woman is more spiri- 
tually minded than the average man. Reason it out 
for yourself. People, in the mass, go where they find 
enjoyment, and stay away from where they are bored. 
Now, getting right down to the brass tacks, who will 
find anything to enjoy in a religious service? Those 
who like to lay aside the body thoughts for a time, and 
take up spirit-thoughts. Or, those who find it pleasant 
and profitable to hear about, think about, and sing 


192 


SPIRITUAL THINKING 193 


about something higher than clothes, food, houses, 
business and amusements.” 

‘Maybe they think nothing is higher than those 
things.” 

‘“‘Some are like that; but I don’t believe there are 
many utter materialists in this world. To all of us life 
is more mysterious than any fairy tale. Where we 
came from, how long we'll stay, where we'll go next,— 
no one can say. Something created the worlds and 
keeps them spinning in a certain order; Something 
created us and put us here, and grants us the breath 
of life for our allotted time; Something tells most of 
us that some day we'll ‘go back home,’ whence we 
came, and that our trials and struggles and pains down 
here will then be seen to have been necessary and right. 
That Something we call God. It’s as natural for 
normal humans to worship Him, as it is for a dog to 
worship his master who gives him all that he has. To 
a few, this sounds meaningless, and therefore foolish.” 

“‘ How do they explain life, Dad? ” 

“They don’t try to explain it. As ridiculous as it 
sounds, they’re not interested. Although they know 
that a few years ago they were not walking around in 
one of these things of perishable flesh that we call 
‘bodies,’ and that pretty soon they will have to give 
up their upholstered skeletons,—in spite of this, 
they’re satisfied to expend their entire thought and 
action upon money and what it will buy.” 

“It’s funny how different folks turn out.” 

“Well, I know a man who can’t appreciate music. 
He can’t hear anything in the most thrilling symphony 
but noise. So he shakes his head pityingly at those 
who are normally musical. With a little company, on 
a mountain-top, I watched a sunrise that held most of 


194 SAY, DAD! 


us dumb by its unearthly beauty. Afterward, one of 
the party said to me, ‘ Either I’m lacking in something, 
or else you folks are dippy! There you stood with 
your eyes popping out, fairly holding your breaths, just 
because the sky was red or pink or something. And 
me—lI’d have given all the sunrises there ever were just 
to gaze on a plate of steak and onions! ’ ” 

“Well, say, Dad—if a fellow can’t enjoy music or 
beautiful things to look at, and he hasn’t enough 
imagination to dream of something splendid that this 
life is leading up to—why, how is he any better than 
a—er—cow! ” 

‘Why pick on the poor cow, Dick? ” 

‘“‘ Because last summer when we were on the farm, 
one day I was lying under a tree, looking at the sky 
and the mountains. Gee, but everything was so big 
and blue and green and—well, I can’t say it; but I 
felt myself kind of swelling up, and my heart started 
hammering as though I’d been in a race. After a 
while, just as I was wishing you could see it all with 
me, a cow came out of the woods and stood facing the 
way I was looking. There she stood gazing at the very 
picture that stirred me all up, and all she thought 
about was the old cud she was chewing. Then, from 
the valley I heard that blind girl playing her violin, 
and some birds heard it too and started singing; and 
there that dumb-bell cow stood and just chewed! ” 


“Tf we’re not careful, Dick, most of us may find, - 


some day, that even a cow passed us by. She prob- 
ably does all she was created to do,—how about you 
and me? ” 


od 


LVIII 
TAKING THE WORLD “AS IS ” 


as 1s one? ” 
“‘ Where did you hear the expression, Dick? ” 

“Mr. Jones was telling Mr. Smith that he was 
disappointed in the second-hand car he’d bought at 
auction. He said the engine wasn’t worth two cents. 
Then Mr. Smith said, ‘ Well, old man, you’ve nobody 
to blame but yourself,—you bought it as is, you 
know! ’” 

“He meant that the car had been sold without any 
guarantee. The auctioneer probably said something 
like this: ‘ Now, people, here’s a car worth your look- 
ing over. Examine it ifiside and out, satisfy yourselves 
as to its value to you, and then make your bids. While 
I’m selling the car as is, most of you know a good car 
when you see it, and somebody’s going to get a bargain. 
Who makes the first bid?’ ” 

“That sounds like a skin game to me, Dad! ” 

“Not at all. The dishonest salesman usually tries 
to discourage your examining a car—he hopes you'll 
take it on his say-so. In this case, Mr. Jones evidently 
judged the engine from its looks. When he ran the 
car, it failed him. But, maybe he paid so little for the 
car, that even with a new engine it will be a bargain. 
That depends. 

“In one sense, we have to take everything in life 
as is—we have to take it on faith. It isn’t until we’ve 


195 


i wi Dad, what kind of an automobile is an 


196 SAY, DAD! 


tried it out that we know much about it. One of the 
first things we take on faith is this world.” 

“TI don’t quite get that, Dad.” 

‘I mean that each one of us has to live here a long 
while, and examine life on the old globe pretty care- | 
fully, before he knows much about it. In the begin- 
ning, we think the world is filled with people who love 
to feed us and rock us to sleep and provide us with 
toys and lollypops. After a time, we are disappointed 
to discover that we’ve been born also into a world of 
tummy-aches, castor-oil, and heartless folk who keep 
saying, ‘No, no—baby mustn’t touch! ’” 

‘““T get you, Dad! And then we find lessons that 
stump us, and big boys that bully us, and ‘ Keep Off 
the Grass’ signs ’most everywhere. What can we do 
about it? ” 

‘“‘ Tf we’re sensible, we’ll adapt ourselves to the kind 
of world this really is, no matter how we'd like it to be. 
Failure to do this, Dick, turns many a fellow into a 
crook.” 

“You mean, he lives as if it was another kind of 
world? ” 

“Exactly! Listen—on this little old globe are mil- 
lions of men, women and children, each one in constant 
need of food, clothing, shelter and happy work, to say 
the least. Among these are many with handicaps like 
weak bodies, dull minds, and sodden spirits. Now, it 
takes only common-sense to see that the earth was 
meant to support folks who would be glad to do their 
share of life’s work, and to help one another. It’s 
just that kind of a world. | 

“But, here’s a man who says, ‘I don’t like to 
work—I don’t care what becomes of anyone else 
—I’m going to let others toil and save, and then 


TAKING THE WORLD “AS IS” 197 


rob them. Then the world will seem pretty pleasant 
to me.’ 

“Before long he finds himself shut up in a cold 
stone building with iron bars at the windows. How he 
raves about it! They’ve taken away his liberty! 
They won’t let him live by mean, selfish, cruel crime! 
Well, he isn’t in that kind of a world, that’s all. He’s 
where, in order to live in peace and safety and inde- 
pendence, men must obey the laws of God and man. 
Maybe he could be happy as a wild animal in the 
jungle, where his strength might enable him to grab 
what he liked regardless of anyone but himself; but 
he was born a man, and in a world where most men 
intend to live decently and honestly and kindly. He 
can’t change the earth to suit his selfishness, so he’d 
better take it as he finds it—or as is—and be a decent 
citizen while he’s here.”’ 

“T never thought of it in just that way, Dad. What 
you say explains a lot of things. Most of the shirkers 
and kickers and complainers are wasting their time 
butting their heads against a stone wall. It’s like try- 
ing to be happy while doing wrong—something inside 
keeps spoiling it all. Even Snub, just a bulldog, has 
learned that.” 

“What do you mean, Dick? ” 

“Why, you know she hates to wear a collar and be 
on a leash. For a good while she used to crawl under 
the couch and growl at sight of them. Then she must 
have said to herself, ‘ It’s tough luck, but here I am 
in a world where we dogs have to wear the things, so I 
may as well be pleasant about it.’ Now she fetches 
them so’s I’ll take her walking. . . . Well, here goes 
for that Latin lesson. It looks hard tonight, but it’s 
up to me to tackle it as 7s, eh, Dad? ” 


LIX 
DON’T BE “ONLY A BOY ” 


a AY, Dad, can’t boys amount to as much, as 

S boys, as men can, aS men? ” 

“You’d better believe they can, Dick! 
Why? ” 

‘“‘Oh, I’m always hearing the expression, and I’m 
sick of it. When a fellow wants to do something or 
go somewhere or find out something, half the time 
some grown-up looks at him pityingly or laughingly, 
and says, ‘ Of course not—remember that you’re only 
a boy!’ Even the girls like to turn up their little 
noses and Say, ‘I don’t believe you know what you’re 
talking about—youw’re only a boy! ’” | 

“The way to remedy that, is to make yourself more 
than an ‘ only’ or a ‘ merely.’ Age, sex and size have . 
nothing to do with it—any human being can climb out 
of the ‘ nothing but’ class if he’ll try. Cause yourself 
to be remembered as the boy who always is courteous, 
always considerate of others, always outwardly cheer- 
ful. Be the one in your class who is never late. Let 
your: teachers discover that you never guess at an 
answer—when you don’t know, you say so. In your 
games, as in everything else, be known as a fellow who 
always plays fairly and squarely. In a word, never be 
satisfied to be just a boy—be a fine boy! ” 

“Those very superior grown-ups will say it, just the 
same, Dad. You’d think that they were born six-feet 
tall! Il bet, when they were kids—” 


198 


DON’T BE “ONLY A BOY” 199 


“‘ Well, never mind what they say. They don’t mean 
to hurt you—just as you don’t intend to hurt old folks 
by things you say. We oldsters often bear just what 
you’re bearing. No one says, perhaps, ‘ You’re only a 
man’; but their looks and manner may say, ‘ You’re 
only a poor bookkeeper, while I’m a wealthy manu- 
facturer.’ ‘ You’re only a business man, while I’m a 
retired millionaire.’ ‘ You’re only a foreigner, while 
I’m an American.’ 

‘* All of which, of course, is very silly and very vul- 
gar. Remember, Dick, most persons who look down 
on others don’t do so because they’re really taller—but 
because they’re standing on a pile of shoddy pride. 
Were you around, the other evening, when Colonel 
Jackman was here? ” 

“The big man who came in the splendifferous car? ” 

‘“‘I suppose so. The Colonel’s massive, and his in- 
come corresponds. Well, something brought up the 
name of a man we both ‘had known in boyhood—Ches- 
ter Lunn—and I remarked that the world had treated 
him rather harshly. 

“Yes, indeed,’ said the Colonel, regretfully, ‘ for 
all his lifelong struggles, he doesn’t even own the roof 
over his head tonight. But, believe me, my friend, 
when I declare to you that he’s infinitely richer than I. 
I own a lot of money—but that’s about all anyone ever 
says of me. When Lunn dies, there’ll be hundreds of 
people saying, “ A squarer man and a kinder one never 
lived! ”’ And yet, I suppose the splendid chap thinks 
he’s looked down upon by most of those hundreds.” 

“ That’s what you mean by character being the real 
wealth of a man. I know that, Dad—and everyone 
ought to be fine, of course; but people count it a lot 
more in a man than in a boy.” 


200 SAY, DAD! 


“They feel that the man has less excuse for a weak 
character, as he’s had longer to grow a strong one. 
But, what others think of you isn’t the most important 
thing by a long shot. It’s what you are, and what you 
will be. For, my dear boy, you must never forget that 
the character you’re cultivating day by day is not for 
boyhood merely, nor for youth and young manhood 
only—it’s for all your life until your last hour. And, 
according to my belief, it’s the start of what you must 
be throughout eternity! ” 

‘“Some bad boys become good men, don’t they, 
Dad? ” 

‘“A few. Science tells us, though, that the strongest 
impulses grown folks possess were planted within their 
minds before they were ten years old. Some trees that 
start twisted and crooked, by careful pruning and 
training grow up fairly straight in their old age; but 
most trees and men that begin crooked stay so. It’s 
a wise young tree and a wise lad that keeps straight 
until even the evilest winds can’t make him stoop.” 

“And the straighter I keep, the taller Ill stand, 
Dad—and the harder it’ll be for the sneerers to look at 
me from the top and call me ‘ only’ a boy, eh? ” 

‘““ Never mind their ‘ onlies ’—you’re Dad’s only son, 
and that means more to him than you can imagine! ” 


LX 
SMILING THROUGH LIFE 


“WN a book I was reading, Dad, it said, ‘ Make 
yourselves superior to trouble.’ What’s the 
sense in that? Don’t troubles come to every- 

body, no matter what they do? ”’ 

“It means, train yourself to stand fast when they 
do come. Don’t let them crush you. Even the little 
ones may give you a pretty stiff fight, and the big ones 
may knock you down—but don’t stay down. Get up 
and fight on, unafraid.” 

‘“‘ Well, I suppose everybody puts up some kind of 
a fight.” 

“There you’re wrong, Dick. Some folks are so 
weak-kneed and lacking in grit, that little bits of 
troubles are too much for them. A failure in business, 
a disappointment in love, an undeserved censure—such 
things often drive the weaklings and the cowards to 
self-destruction. Others, with more courage but not 
enough, turn sour, and go through life gloomy and 
complaining. No man came out of the war as he went 
into it. The struggle made him better or made him 
worse. It’s the same way with mental and spiritual 
fights—they leave us either poorer or richer in true 
manhood. | 

“‘T have in mind two brothers who illustrate just 
what I’m telling you. They started in life with equal 
health and education and wealth and opportunities. 
Both married women who have never made them happy 


201 


202 SAY, DAD! 


—who have nearly ruined them, in fact, with their ex- 
travagance. So both Tom and Rob have had plenty 
to worry about, and no end of bitter disappointments.” 

‘¢ And one’s a bear, Dad, and the other’s a bearer.” 

‘‘ Well, whenever I meet Tom—whose face is enough 
to sour cream—he tries to get me in some corner and 
tell me how his wife is keeping him in debt, how his 
daughter doesn’t do this, how his son does do that. 
Life is a farce when it isn’t a tragedy, he declares, and 
he’ll be glad when it’s all over. I get away from him 
as soon as I can, and look up Rob as an antidote. 

“Tf anything, Rob is having the harder row to hoe; 
but his care-worn face lights up at sight of me, just 
because I’m an old friend. He manages a smile and 
stretches out a welcoming hand. ‘ How are you, Rich- 
ard?’ he'll say. ‘Great weather we’re having, eh? 
Just been taking a good walk through the park. 
Started out a trifle blue—one thing and another on my 
mind, you know—but, what with the bracing air and 
warm sunshine, the frolicking squirrels, and the sight 
of two young sweethearts strolling hand in hand with 
glimpses of heaven in their eyes,—well, I guess if J 
have any troubles I’m sitting on top of them! ’ 

“T tell you, Dick, your eyes moisten up a bit and 
your heart gets in an extra beat at contact with a soul 
as brave as that! Troubles are doing their best to 
crush Rob right down into the ground, but he’s made 
himself superior to them.” 

“ T see that, Dad—but how has he done it? ” 

“As I look at it, by common-sense and faith. 
Common-sense tells him that, in a world containing so 
many wrongs and so many mistakes and so little real 
understanding, we are bound to find many rocky roads 
to travel over, and many turbulent streams to cross. 


SMILING THROUGH LIFE 203 


Faith assures him that it’s all for some good purpose, 
and that the end of the journey will make up for all 
the struggle. So he just pushes on with as much of 
a smile as he can summon, and even finds cheer in the 
sight of pleasures that have been denied him. Besides, 
though lonely and disappointed and growing old, he 
hides his grief for fear of saddening others, and does 
his best to be known as a happy man.” 

“Gee, Dad, why can’t his family appreciate a fine 
chap like that? They must be dumb! ” 

“Do you know, Dick, I’m happy to say there seems 
to be some chance of it. Lately, I’m informed by 
someone who knows his household intimately, Rob’s 
wife has begun to act as though she realizes how dear 
a fellow he is, and his children are changing their atti- 
tude toward him. If he’s ever really happy, it will be 
because of his unfailing courage and cheerfulness,— 
his showing himself superior to trouble, as your book 
expresses it.” 

“‘* The man that’s worth while is the man who can 
smile when everything goes dead wrong,’ eh, Dad? ” 

“That’s it. And smiling—which, of course, doesn’t 
mean perpetually going about wearing a silly grin—is a 
habit to get into while young. Then it will come easier 
when you’re old, and need it most, perhaps. Some- 
times I hear, in a round-about way, of trials you have 
to bear at school, Dick,—of things you keep from your 
mother and me for fear of troubling us. We love you 
for it, old man! ” 

ug Aw, gee, Dad—I get along all right. Smiling’s 
easy! ” 


THE MEASURE OF A MAN 


ow HicH Art You? Where is your thinking done— 
Close to the earth, or upward near the sun? 
Do petty things absorb your ev’ry thought— 
The game, the latest crime, what’s sold and bought? 
Do noble deeds and lives inspire your zeal, 
Or are you more concerned about a meal? 
How high, or low, is your most cherished plan? 
The answer marks your stature as a man. 


How Broap Arg You? Where does your good-will end— 
Does race or creed determine who’s your friend? 

To your snap-judgments do you cling with pride, 

Or do you listen to the other side? 

Quick to condemn are you—prompt with the rod, 

Or do you leave the chastening to God? 

How loyal is your heart to all mankind? 

The answer marks the broadness of your mind. 


How Drsp Arg You? Where does your honour start— 
Is it embedded in your inmost heart? 

Do you count virtue a convenient thing 

To practise, or, sore tried, aside to fling? 

Have you the courage by your code to bide, 

And fight for right, though on the losing side? 

Tis thus God reckons, through life’s little span, 

The veritable measure of a man! 


Printed in the United States of America 


204 


LIFE’S PROBLEMS 
sparc seeeteenenetenneereenteeERS ATI 


FREDERICK A. ATKINS 
Author of “Moral Muscle” 


Standing Up to Life 


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The Master as Paymaster 


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Doing the Impossible 


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A Successful Cradle Roll System 


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Helpful suggestions for the successful establishment and 
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{eee ra en EY TRV 


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The Currency of the Invisible 


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Stories of People Worth While 


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